


don’t wanna get used to not having you around

by orphan_account



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Absolute and utter nonsense, Genies, M/M, Magic realism (kind of), Romcom tropes abound!, The Groundhog Day/50 First Dates crossover concept that came to me in a fever dream, Zach is stuck until he Learns A Lesson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-24
Updated: 2018-09-11
Packaged: 2019-07-01 18:43:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 23,379
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15779889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: “I wish,” Brownie says, with a giggle ripping through him, “that my friend Zach here would get his ass laid.” He’s obviously trying to match the women’s solemn mood but failing miserably.Mitch hits him. “No, you idiot. We want Zach to fall inlove. We wish our friend Zach would fall in love.”“Yeah, right,” Brownie amends, “like an insane, beautiful, romcom kind of love.”Zach just pinches the bridge of his nose and prays the genie doesn’t kick them all out.(Or, Zach is a cynic. He’s also kind of cursed.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> THIS IS A WORK OF COMPLETE FICTION, in case you weren’t aware.
> 
> Basically, this idea wouldn’t leave me alone. It didn’t really come fully-formed, so I’ve been figuring out most of it as I go along, but I hope it makes enough sense here to be enjoyable! TL;DR: Just go with it, and hopefully it’ll make sense soon enough!

A few weeks ago, Zach didn’t believe in magic, witchcraft, or any associated practices thereof. Not even remotely. He thought, like most rational, adult people, that fairytales were childish and fictional, and in all his life, he had never ventured to believe that the likes of geniedom —

“ _ Geniedom _ ? That’s not a word.”

“Shut  _ up _ , Mitchy, yes it is.”

“I really don’t think — ”

“For the sake of this moment, it is.”

— Anyway.

Zach had never ventured to believe that the likes of geniedom would one day have such a strong hand in his fate, influencing the events conjured by the universe and driving him to a point of desperation whereby his only rational option led him to stand in front of a small shop on a backstreet of Toronto, about to, and fully prepared to, grovel for the magic to turn in his favour. 

In fact, six weeks ago, he would have probably put money against this type of thing ever happening because,  _ seriously _ ?

“I get that this is, like,  _ not _ something you do, but if we’re going beg the genie to help you, you could at least  _ pretend  _ to be cool with it.” Mitch says, rolling his eyes.

“I’m perfectly cool,” Zach answers, although his little sweater-over-button-down combination would maybe disagree.

The moment honestly feels deserving of a sitcom freeze frame, record scratch sound effect and everything, with the protagonist breaking the fourth wall to say, mostly rhetorically,  _ you might be wondering how I got here _ .

In that case, if that is in fact what you’re wondering, it would definitely be helpful to go back a few weeks, to the beginning, where this all started...

  
  


Zach likes to keep it simple. Partly because he’s kind of anal-retentive, partly because it’s just easier to maintain an empty schedule when most of his waking hours are spent under fluorescent lights at a job he only mostly likes. He spends his weeknights reheating his little tupperwares of meal prep for one and watching  _ The Office _ for the seventh time, and reserves his nights out with friends for Friday’s, Saturday’s, and the occasional Sunday. He likes to be in bed by 11, 11:30 latest, on weeknights, because work tends to be more pleasant without an angry hangover. It’s how he’s operated for the past three years, and he’s learned that a funk doesn’t feel like a funk if you frame it like a habit.

Wait. That sounds a bit depressing. Zach swears it’s not that bad. 

Zach’s under no false impression he leads a fascinating, adventurous life. He’s well aware that he’s not even ticking basic boxes of  _ guy in his 20s with an office job _ , because he’s got colleagues that show up to work hungover on Tuesdays, and he knows plenty of people who spend their evenings doing dreadful-sounding things like  _ networking _ .

It’s not that Zach is opposed to the idea of having fun on weeknights. He does find it a little messed up the way people treat 9-5 life like a prison, as though the only worthwhile part of it, the only chance for real excitement is the weekend. So sometimes, just to stick it to that mindset, and to prove that his  _ funk _ isn’t really a  _ funk _ , he’ll cave and agree to go out with his friends on, say, a Thursday night. 

This is one of those Thursday nights.

  
  


— Actually, it might be better to go  _ even _ further back...

  
  


Zach has been staring at his computer screen for the past seven minutes without moving. About five minutes ago, Zach gave up trying to be productive. The code just started looking too familiar, all the digits blending together so frustratingly indistinguishable that it would take a huge expenditure of energy to detect the error. Energy that Zach, at the moment, would rather spend just staring blankly at his screen. Besides, it’s Thursday afternoon. The clock tells him it’s 2:43, but Zach can’t believe that not more time has passed since lunch. He can’t believe the minutes haven’t ticked merrily passed three, because it feels like he’s been debugging this software since Monday, when it’s really only been— well, seven minutes. What he  _ should _ be doing is reviewing his notes for his big presentation tomorrow, but, well, that’s kind of a lost cause, too. 

“Jack attack!” 

Zach looks up to see Kyle Dubas standing at the edge of his desk, finger guns cocked in front of him. 

“Putting that big brain to work, I trust?” Kyle says, with a grin that Zach has never been able to read.

“That’s why you pay me,” Zach answers, hoping he sounds more like he’s bantering than just being dry. He tacks on a wan smile just for good measure.

Kyle just winks, before spinning on his heel and turning away. Zach exhales.

The interaction is jarring enough to make Zach shift his focus back to the task at hand. Even three years in, he’s not quite used to being so visible to his CEO. On the whole, he’s not sure if he likes it, or if he’d rather just be invisible. Although, he’s not entirely sure it counts as actual visibility if his CEO messes up his name  _ every time _ , even though Zach almost always corrects him. At this point, Zach hopes maybe Kyle insists on doing it as some inside joke that Zach’s half-in on, rather than actual inconsiderateness, but the guy’s pretty aloof. Maybe it’s nice that he has the decency to try remembering his employees’ names at all, even if he’s kind of terrible at it.

Zach imagines Kyle meanders around the different departments of the office repeating  _ I’m not a regular CEO; I’m a  _ **_cool_ ** _ CEO  _ like a mantra _.  _ Not that him knowing it would make it any less true; Kyle has been on the Forbes 30 Under 30 list for the past three years and, as enigmatic as he can be, he does kind of rock. According to lore, Kyle Dubas started the company almost entirely on his own, out of a Starbucks on Bloor. His first moment of inspiration came over sips of a flat white and he first demo-ed a prototype of the software to a group of Starbucks employees. He eventually concluded he needed investors and employees and customers and a space that wasn’t so public, and now the company encompasses several floors of a tall, neobrutalist office building in downtown Toronto. A lot of the time, Zach tries really hard not to think about how he’s working for a rapidly growing software company started by a guy not that much older than himself. Though, despite being only a few years over thirty, Kyle acts like he’s decades older, overcompensating with finger guns and pop culture references woven into his pep talks in some effort to regale all the young talent at the company.

As if inspired by his brief interaction with Kyle, Zach redirects his focus to his presentation tomorrow. It’s nothing out of the ordinary, just a quarterly meeting with some important stakeholders where Zach and his other team members present their work. Zach’s had to give nearly a dozen of these, but this one’s going to be different. Zach’s manager stressed that this would be  _ the  _ presentation; the one that, should all go well, could land him a promotion. To say it’s been a long time coming would be a massive understatement. People rarely stay in one place for two years, and Zach’s been here for over three. 

“You should get a new job,” Brownie has told him, on multiple occasions. As if having a  _ sexy _ job in marketing and having over 500 LinkedIn connections means he’s authorized to dole out professional advice. But the job’s not the problem. It’s a fine job, and creating software used by professional sports teams is a pretty neat intersection of his interests, but sometimes he feels a bit stagnant, antsy. Like there are other things he  _ should _ be doing, but he just doesn’t know what. Or, like everyone around him seems to have some clear direction while he’s still ambling around in the job he was hired to do out of college.

Zach doesn’t  _ hate _ his job; it’s solid and he gets good benefits and the salary is enough to afford rent in Toronto, so. He doesn’t see anything wrong with that, even if his days can oscillate unpredictably between brain-leeching monotony and fast-paced, stressful excitement. Mostly, his job is the place he spends eight hours of his day. A place he neither looks forward to nor dreads. And that’s fine by him. It’s enough. 

For the record, though, Zach is happy. Zach feels he should mention that he’s happy. Maybe there are more exciting things he could be doing with a degree in software engineering, like building start-ups with his buddies and selling them for millions of dollars. But, honestly, Zach’s just… fine with that  _ not _ being his life. A lot of people don’t seem to understand that, even if he’s not always sure of what he wants, he’s happy to just exist in the comfortable life he’s managed to build for himself.

The important part of everything is that Zach’s got a rich personal life, and he’s got interests outside of work, like the book he’s still trying to write. So, really, not feeling constantly fulfilled at his day job isn’t, like, the end of the world or anything. It’s hardly even worth a quarter-life crisis. 

  
  


So, maybe Zach’s not, like,  _ happy _ -happy, but he’s fine. He’s getting by. The truth is, it’s not like Zach is even all that focused on work. When he’s at work, his mind constantly wanders to the book he wishes he was writing instead, and whenever he tries writing his book, he worries about not being good enough to ever get published, leaving him miserable at his desk job forever. It’s not a really healthy cycle, so Zach tends to just ignore the pit of nihilism and dread that sticks to his insides like a tongue to a frozen pole, shoving it down until it’s mangled into something akin to nonchalance.

  
  


At around seven thirty that night, Zach starts to profoundly regret letting his friends talk him into going out. He caved mainly because he actually hasn’t seen Mo in a month, and because Thursday night guys’ night used to be their  _ thing  _ back before everyone got office jobs, and Zach’s got a bail record of two for three. And, if he doesn’t do something that occupies him completely tonight, he’s only going to obsess over his meeting tomorrow afternoon. He doesn’t tend to bring work stuff home, perfectly content to just leave it there and respect the work-life balance that Kyle’s always preaching about. But he can’t be a junior software developer forever, and it would be really nice to have at least one tangible work accomplishment to share with his parents. 

Within about three minutes of everyone getting reacquainted and grabbing a table, Mitch shoots out of his seat to order them a round of shots. According to Mitch, taking shots at eight is a way to actually  _ avoid _ a messy night. 

“If we get drunk  _ earlier _ , we won’t be out as late, and you can still stick to your bedtime,” Mitch explains, nudging Zach’s shoulder as he sets the shots down in front of them. 

The conversation oscillates between catching each other up on all the mundane adult life updates (Mo’s asking his girlfriend to move in with him; Mitch just made a pretty significant payment towards his student loans; Brownie might switch gyms after his started charging for the cucumber water) and reminiscing about old times. It’s weird, sometimes, to think that these were people he used to spend every waking minute with, people he still considers his best friends, but there are still so many huge gaps between them.

They’re one shot and two drink in, in the very middle of a conversation about Leafs’ prospects, when Brownie blurts, “Zach, when was the last time you got laid?”

“When was the last time  _ you _ got laid?” He shoots back instantly, because his capacity for decent comebacks is impaired to the point of nonexistence after three drinks, apparently.

Brownie shrugs. “Two nights ago, man. I told you I started seeing this HR girl from my office,”

Zach remembers, now, because they’d been texting about it while Zach was watching the Jim and Pam drama unfold for the hundredth time and made anreference that Brownie didn’t get because he’s somehow never seen  _ The Office _ . 

“So, like I was saying, I think they’re gonna be super strong offensively — ”

“Okay, no, you’re not getting out of this one, Hyman,” Connor says, planting his elbows on the table in front of him and leaning in towards Zach dramatically. “You haven’t dated anyone since college. Explain that to me, please?”

Zach doesn’t want to. Instead, he takes his time downing the last of his drink, even though it’s too sweet and too full of tequila to really be chuggable, and he makes a show of playing around with the crumbs of the nachos. “Sure, let’s just completely change the subject,” he mutters.

“Know what? I like this subject better,” Mitch says with a grin Zach doesn’t trust.

“Me  _ too _ ,” Brownie chimes.

Zach groans. “I really don’t.”

The Cliff Notes version of it is that Zach, as previously stated, is perfectly fine with his life right now. It’s neither too full nor missing anything. And Zach, to set the record straight, is  _ not _ lonely.

“What about Tinder?” Mo suggests, innocently enough. It’s a sweet suggestion, because if Mo also doesn’t want Zach to be single, he at least has a nicer way of approaching it.

Zach deflects by saying, “Have  _ you  _ ever tried Tinder?” — knowing full well Mo, who’s been in a committed relationship for the past two years, has not, because he met his girlfriend at a fucking petting zoo. “It’s a — ”

Mitch, the self-proclaimed Prince of Tinder, clears his throat. “You better not be about to shade Tinder, now.”

Mitch is on a different date approximately once every two to three nights. In his own words, he’s too poor to buy himself dinner, and too easily bored to want to spend all his free time alone in his apartment. There is, apparently, no shortage of tall, impressively-built men in Toronto wanting to take Mitch out, which is, like… good for him, Zach guesses. Zach personally doesn’t get it, doesn’t get why Mitch never calls any of them back when he’s a romantic at heart. But it’s not his place. Because, unlike his friends, he doesn’t like to pry into other people’s romantic lives.

“We just worry about you, is all,” Brownie says. “I get that you fill, like, the grumpy grandpa role in our friend group, but that doesn’t mean you can’t find love,”

Zach starts, “I never said — ”

“He’s right. Don’t you wanna meet someone?” Mo asks.

“Well, sure, but — ”

“Zach, what you need is for someone to sweep you off your fucking  _ feet _ . You need to meet someone and fall in love and fulfill all your romcom fantasies.” Mitch sighs.

“ _ Your _ romcom fantasies,” Zach corrects. He takes a moment to look each of his friends in the eye. They’re watching him cautiously, and all their heads are bent towards him like they’re in the middle of staging an intervention and —  _ oh _ . “Look, guys, I appreciate the concern, and I know how much you care. But I’m honestly fine. I’m busy with work, and there’s the book that I still wanna write, and… I’ve got you guys, so…”

Mitch, Brownie, and Mo share a pointed look, but they drop it.

By the end of the night, Zach is happy, and his spirit’s been warmed with sweet mixed drinks. When they leave the bar, arm-in-arm, walking four abreast down the sidewalk, they decide they’d rather spill into the road and laugh uproariously at nothing at all than correct themselves. Zach always feels better after seeing them, lighter even when they corner him about subjects he’d rather avoid. Mitch’s genius idea of starting rather than ending the night with shots kind of backfired, though, because he needs to be back at his apartment, in his _ bed, immediately _ .

They’re all at least heading in the same direction, which helps when Zach wants to go home but doesn’t want to say goodbye to his friends just yet. Zach’s toeing the line between a cautious drunk and a drunk who sways too close to the edge of the sidewalk, and finds himself steering Mitch and Brownie away from oncoming traffic more than once.

His bed is going to feel so glorious.

He’s thirsty out of his mind, and he’s mentally scanning his mind to remember if he has any particularly delicious leftovers waiting for him in the fridge, when he spots a flickering sign in the distance. In this part of town, most of the storefronts are closed at this hour, besides the occasional 24 hour Tim’s, so it’s strange to be walking towards a store that looks suspiciously open. 

In the window is a large, flickering neon sign that reads  _ WISHES GRANTED 2$. _

Zach immediately tries to guide his friends away from the little shop because he knows the second one of them spots that sign it’s game —

“Holy  _ shit _ , wishes!” Mitch shrieks.

— over.

Once Mitch sees the shop, he’s on the warpath, and the rest of them are pretty helpless in the face of it. He hovers in front of the door, and tugs on the handle experimentally.

“Oh my god, it’s actually open!” he squeals, delighted and flushed the way he always is after three mixed drinks.

“Let’s not — ” Zach starts, thinking once again of his queen bed and perennial 6:35AM alarm and pivotal meeting tomorrow afternoon.

“We have to go in!” Brownie exclaims, with an emphasis on  _ have to  _ like this is some kind of life-or-death situation.

“Do we trust a genie who only charges a tooney for a wish?” Zach asks.

“Do we trust a genie who charges for wishes at all?” Mo counters.

“Genies have to earn a living somehow,” Zach comments mildly, stifling a yawn.

The bell on the door chimes when they enter, and it’s so dark in the place that Zach worries maybe they’re actually closed and just forgot to lock up or something. The shop is cramped; shelves piled high with books and crystals and other trinkets Zach recognizes from, like, television and Halloween store portrayals of the occult, and it smells like someone lit incense to cover up the smell of must. There’s only one window at the front. 

A woman emerges from behind a bead curtain and looks at then expectantly.

“Uh, we’re here for the wishes?” Mitch says.

The woman, who Zach figures is the genie — or, like, genie by proxy? — stations herself behind a small table and places her palms face up on its surface. Mitch and Brownie hesitate, before crouching in front of the table and each taking one of her hands. A velvety purple tablecloth is draped over it, and on either side of their hands are various books and stacks of tarot cards. It all kind of looks like a movie set, but Zach’s not here to criticize that which he knows nothing about and has no interest in. He’s just here to make sure his friends don’t make asses of themselves, and that they leave the establishment as put together as possible.

“I wish,” Brownie says, with a giggle ripping through him, “that my friend Zach here would get his ass  _ laid _ .” He’s obviously  _ trying _ to match the women’s solemn mood but failing miserably.

Mitch hits him. “No, you idiot. We want Zach to fall in  _ love _ . We wish our friend Zach would fall in love.”

“Yeah, right,” Brownie amends, “like an insane, beautiful, romcom kind of love.”

Zach just pinches the bridge of his nose and prays the genie woman doesn’t kick them all out. Mo snickers quietly beside him.

The woman them all down, with a glint in her eyes. Her face is the perfect picture of someone experienced in dealing with complete idiots. Her gaze lingers on Zach for a split second, and he’s not sure why the eye contact sends a shiver down his spine.

“Very well,” she says, “but this will not be possible until your friend abandons his fear and trusts the universe.”

It’s a pretty deep prediction, for a person who just met them, but Mitch and Brownie both thank her profusely as they stand up. And then that’s it. There’s no rubbing a lamp, no crystal ball, no heirloom necklaces that might carry some wish-granting ability. Just this woman that Zach thinks might be wearing jeans. Not that he’s in a position to judge the authenticity of people involved in supernatural practices based on what they wear, but. The whole thing is probably a skam, anyway.

Zach heaves a sigh and drops a tenner on the table, partly because he’s not sure if gratuity is included in the price of the wishes, partly because he feels bad that she’s had to deal with his drunken idiot friends.

  
  


It doesn’t feel like that Zach’s asleep for very long before he’s woken up by a thunderstorm. 

The rain is audible through the window, and Zach hears it tapping against the glass in a sure rhythm that’s bound to keep him awake now that it’s drawn him from his sleep. He hopes, at least, that the rain wipes out the humidity that clings to Toronto in the summertime. The only problem now is that the lightning is somehow illuminating his room in bright blue flashes, despite his very expensive blackout curtains. The last thing he wants to do is check his phone for the time, because he knows the blue light will only fuck up his already-interrupted sleep cycle even more. He’s also a little worried it’s going to be, like 6:15 or something, meaning he won’t have to get up right away but he also won’t have time to fall back asleep. 

But then, even worse than the rolling thunder and impatient lightning, Zach hears the surge of power shorting in his apartment. The lack of air conditioning is palpable immediately, and Zach kicks his duvet to the opposite end of the bed too cool off some. He winds up drifting in and out of a thin sleep for the rest of the night, finding it impossible to settle into a comfortable position, and basically giving up halfway through.

  
  


In the morning, Zach dresses himself in nicest button-down and throws on a tie, because why not? Nobody in his department wears ties, but today’s his day. Besides, he needs the visual pick-me-up of looking nice after the wretched night of sleep he had. He can barely face his daily bowl of bran flakes, he’s so nauseous. He’s not sure if that’s because of the four tequila sunrises Mitch ordered for him or the leaden dread for his presentation later, but he supposes it doesn’t really make a difference.

  
  


Zach loses most of his morning to several last-minute requests. His work piles up to the point where he’s left with exactly fifteen minutes to grab his lunch from the cafeteria, eat, and install himself in the Canucks conference room for his meeting. The team meetings are important, if frequent enough to lose their sense of gravity, but this one’s significance is making him jittery. He can barely make it through his ham sandwich without having to several calming deep breaths.

Once he finishes his lunch (in record time), he power walks over to the elevator bank and hits the up button. The cafeteria and his desk are only one floor apart, but Zach’s ultimate goal is to just minimize his losses. And, in this case, taking the stairs counts as a loss. The elevator doors slide open, and luckily, there’s only one other person in there, because Zach’s starting to sweat pretty profusely. The last thing he wants is to be crammed in between a bunch of people. 

Zach presses the 27 button and waits. He smiles politely at the other occupant of the elevator, who’s headed up to 28 — the sales floor. So he works here, too, then. Zach wonders how long, since he can recognize a good number of people from the company’s different departments after being here three years. 

After several moments, Zach realizes nothing’s happening. They’re still lodged on the 26th floor, showing no signs of moving up, and Zach’s just been politely smiling at the — yeah, kind of handsome — stranger like an idiot. It’s not that old a building, and while the elevators don’t shoot up like rockets, they’re never slow like this. 

“Uh,” the other man says, “why aren’t we moving?”

Zach frowns, and hits the 27 button another time. Instead of budge even an inch, the overhead lights flicker worryingly. After a few moments of nothing, the elevator paces up for half a second before lurching to a halt.

“Are we — did the elevator just break?” Zach asks. He feels awkward for breaking his silence, even though the guy spoke first, like now he’s reminded of how tinny is voice sounds in an airless metal box. Zach presses the button again, a bit more insistently this time, as though the elevator will sense his urgency. The universe had better not be planning to serve any karmic justice on today of all days.

The guy coughs, “I mean, that’s probably why people shouldn’t take the elevator up one floor. Karma, and stuff.”

Zach whips around, mildly offended. “You’re… you’re joking, right? You’re gonna put this on  _ me _ ? I—” he scrubs a hand over his face, “Oh my god, I’m stuck in an elevator with a jackass,” he says, more to himself than anything. He didn’t fully intend on saying that out loud, but really — he’s not about to explain to some stranger that he has to be sitting down in the most important meeting of his almost three year career in less than ten minutes, and  _ the stairs were just too much today, okay? _

“Hey, watch who you’re calling a jackass, jackass!” 

Zach internalizes a groan. “Look, I just really can’t be stuck right now.”

The guy rolls his eyes. “Oh, because my time is so much less valuable than yours?” As if to punctuate is outburst, he flips back his blond hair and huffs.

Zach slams the emergency button, seething a little because he doesn’t want to have to mitigate a horrendously rude stranger’s bad attitude in addition to his own nerves today. If he’s even five minutes late to this meeting, there will be actual, literal hell to pay. His team has been building this software expansion for the past three months, and he’s the infrastructure guy, so he  _ needs _ to be in that meeting, even without the potential promotion, and god only knows what’ll happen to him if he’s  _ not _ and —

Before the emergency responder even comes on the line, the elevator hitches and starts ascending, albeit at a slower crawl than usual.

“Thank  _ fuck _ ,” the guy mutters, and Zach squeezes his eyes closed to shut him out.

“Well, this sure was lovely,” Zach intones, as the doors slide open to reveal the 27the floor. He casts a quick glance back at his stalled-elevator companion, but he’s looking at his phone, blond hair flopping into his eyes. Well, the sales people don’t have their reputation for being beautiful but heartless people for nothing.

  
  


Miraculously, Zach is on time for his meeting with a minute and a half to spare.

He also fucking  _ crushes it _ .

Maybe the universe does have his back today, after all.

  
  


That night, Mitch announces that he’s too exhausted to cook and too broke to order takeout, and invites himself over for dinner. 

“I’ll get you back next time,” he says, but Zach doesn’t mind. It’s nice to have company, even if his apartment is barely big enough for himself to move around in comfortably.

Mitch spares no time hoisting himself up to sit on Zach’s kitchen counter, swinging his legs against the cabinets. It’s pretty impressive for an absent move, considering Mitch is 98% gangly limbs and Zach’s kitchen is microscopic. Zach pushes his chopping block over a few inches to accommodate him. Mitch is an easy friend, because Zach never feels like he needs to fill the gaps of silence with mindless babbles. Not that there tends to be that many gaps of silence, with Mitch, but the sentiment still stands. Zach can just chop his vegetables for the stir fry and not feel like he has to, in some way, entertain Mitch with anything other than a recount of his day. In turn, Mitch always gives great reactions, even to mundane stories, and he’ll retain details that most people would forget.  

“So, okay, I’m on my way to my meeting this afternoon and the  _ elevator _ breaks down.”

Mitch grabs a slice of julienned red pepper off the cutting board and chomps down on it. “That sucks. What did you do?”

“Well, get this. There was this other guy on the elevator and he totally called me out for taking it up one floor. Said that’s why it broke.”

“Sounds like a jerk. Was he hot?”

The two sentences in that sequence make Zach a little concerned for Mitch’s standards, but he forges on. “I guess? In a sales way, though. Not that it mattered, cause we were stuck for, like, five whole minutes, and he continued to be a jerk. I was kind of a jerk to him, too, but it was deserved; trust me.”

“Okay, that was totally a  _ meet cute _ !” Mitch exclaims, sounding far too excited by Zach’s bad luck and rude encounter than he honestly should, as a friend.

“The hell is a meet cute?”

Mitch just looks at him like he’s an idiot. “Meet. Cute.” He repeats, as though saying the words with more emphasis will suddenly enlighten Zach. “It’s like, when two people who are destined to fall in love meet in a funny way? Come on, man, a meet cute! Have you never seen a romcom?”

Zach rolls his eyes, and keeps chopping his vegetables. “That was  _ not _ a meet cute, and I’ll tell you why. Because that guy was a dick and we’re in no way destined to — ”

“Honestly, sometimes the greatest love stories start off with two people who can’t stand each other. Can you pretend for, like, two minutes that it was and live out your romcom fantasy?”

“ _ Your  _ romcom fantasy,” Zach corrects, again, adding the vegetables to a skillet and sautéing.

“Whatever, I’m still texting the group that you had an unlikely encounter with an attractive stranger in a broken elevator.”

“I feel like you’re missing the whole part about how he was a dick. I didn’t even get his name or anything.”

Mitch just laughs and throws the stub end of a carrot at Zach’s head. It hits him with an audible thud.

“Don’t be a killjoy.” 

Zach just keeps sautéing. “Don’t project your weird delusions onto me, dude. Let’s talk about your day, instead.”

Mitch is just fine to switch gears for a bit, and by the time Zach’s stir fry is done, he’s completely rid himself of ill-will for the rude elevator sales guy. More accurately, his ill-will shifts to Mitch’s, because for the rest of the evening, Mitch keeps poking him and whispering  _ meet cute _ as if that will somehow rewind time and correct the fact that they didn’t get along for the whole five minutes they were stuck together.

  
  


The weekend passes by in a blur of errands (the four loads of laundry he’s been avoiding because he hates the dingy laundry room in the basement of his building), seeing his parents for Sunday dinner (who inform him that his younger cousin just got engaged,  _ how nice is that _ ), and most of all, not writing. It’s not like he really forgets to write, because every time he walks through the living room, his laptop practically screams at him from its spot on coffee table. Zach just doesn’t get around to it. It’s a bit depressing, how a weekend can really blur by without him realizing it, even when on paper it doesn’t seem like he’s done all that much. Weekends are what everyone at the office makes cheeky, knowing comments about. They’re the golden token validating all the hard work they put in from Monday to Friday, they’re meant to be cherished, savoured, spent wisely. And the most Zach really managed to do was win one solo round of Fortnite, because he’s apparently still playing that game, even though it’s stopped being fun.

Monday kind of sucks, mainly because all Mondays kind of suck. Lorraine, who sits next to him, even has a coffee mug stationed permanently at her desk declaring  _ Mondays suck _ . 

The rush from having a big meeting, anxiety-induced as it was, is a bitch to come down from. And, since he doesn’t have anything to prepare for, and has finished all his debugging, he’s stuck doing all the little, menial tasks he’s pushed back for weeks, like cleaning up his inbox and RSVPing to company events. He thinks it’s at least better than Mo, who’s been stuck back on coffee duty at his job as an assistant to some Bay Street exec.

 

 

On Tuesday, there’s a networking mixer after work. Zach is pretty much cornered into going because his manager insisted, and Zach doesn’t want to take a step out of line with his manager watching him so closely lately. Besides, he likes to save his moments of defiance for when they count. He’s yet to actually enjoy a moment of defiance, but when he does, it’ll be worth it.

Zach’s got two rules for surviving work mixers:

  1. Keep your face buried in your phone so nobody can approach you with small talk
  2. Hover around the table where waiters deposit the leftover hors d’oeuvres and plastic wine glasses after doing their rounds



It’s simple. It keeps him fed, a little tipsy, and mostly unbothered. The big thing is just showing up, and making sure his manager sees he showed up. But the rest, Zach can utterly, utterly leave.

Zach’s poking around a half-eaten tray of crab cakes, when he feels someone approach him. A wave of dread settles over him, and he braces himself for the small talk.

“Does anybody actually get stuff accomplished here?” Asks a familiar voice that Zach can’t quite place.

Zach laughs, despite himself. “God,  _ right _ ?” 

He doesn’t really want to get into a conversation with a stranger right now, even though that’s kind of the whole point of the evening, so he checks his phone after answering.

“I hate these things, to be honest,” the guy says. 

“Me too — ” Zach says, voice dying in his throat as he looks up. He is entirely startled to find that the man standing in front of him is the same jackass from the elevator last week. He, apparently, has very little recollection of that, because he’s treating Zach like it’s their first encounter.

“I’m Willy, by the way. I work in sales,” he says, and sticks out a hand for Zach to shake.

Zach takes it apprehensively. “Yeah, we’ve met before,” he says, because he feels like he should. It’s fine, he supposes, if this guy doesn’t remember him. It seems impossible that he wouldn’t, but people in sales are constantly meeting new people so it wouldn’t surprise Zach if this guy could even forget someone who called him a jackass in a broken elevator. 

“No, I don’t think so,” Willy answers with a smooth, practiced grin. He still hasn’t let go of Zach’s hand.

“Uh, yeah, I think so,” Zach coughs, taking his hand back. The idea of having to explain to Willy that they’ve definitely met before is becoming increasingly painful. Zach’s aware he’s rarely the most memorable guy in the room, so he cuts his losses and decides to move on.

“You must have me confused for someone else,” Willy’s saying, and Zach notices his smile slipping a bit. 

“No, never mind. I’m Zach, I work in development.”

“ _ Cool _ ,” is Willy’s instant response, and that’s not usually what people say after Zach tells them what he does for a living. Usually it’s,  _ why don’t you work for Google  _ or  _ how much money is there in that?  _ Or asking him if he knows how to  _ hack _ things.

“Yeah, I guess it is,”

He doesn’t really care about what the guy from the elevator who apparently doesn’t remember him has to say. Mostly, he just wants to be left alone. Zach’s mature enough to admit that he was rude to Willy, and was rude to him first, but he’s also familiar enough with his system of surviving work mixers to know that once you get caught up talking to somebody, your chances of leaving within the first hour decrease by about half.

“You’re the guy that  _ makes the things _ . Like, you’re behind the scenes making everything possible! I think that’s awesome.”

Zach stutters, searching for an answer that’s at once polite, distant, noncommittal, and succinct. “I — yes. Yeah. I mean, I help  _ make the things _ .”

“You guys literally type things out and make all this cool shit happen,” Willy says, plucking a canapé off the tray of a passing waiter. “It’s like magic. I’ve never understood it.”

“Well, sales is pretty interesting, too, I’m sure?”

This is a lie. Zach detests sales. The idea of working in sales is abhorrent to Zach. Not based on principle, even; it’s just one of those areas Zach knows he’d be terrible in and therefore intends to avoid for as long as he lives. Besides, sales people are their own breed. Most people Zach knows or sees from sales are slimy. Their shirts are pressed too evenly and their smiles are too transparent, and they all seem to think way more highly of themselves, and their bonuses, than is strictly fitting. And they rarely acknowledge people in development as their peers, let alone their equals, since they’re the ones out on the front lines. It’s an infuriating dynamic. Zach doesn’t trifle with sales people, on principle. And, in his experience, they rarely trifle with people like him. So it’s beyond Zach why Willy even seems to have this much interest in him.

“Yeah, it’s fine,” Willy answers, “it’s probably not what I was, like,  _ destined _ to do, or anything. But I like helping people and offering them solutions to their problems and stuff.”

Zach snorts. “There are ways to help people without selling them things,” he says.

Willy laughs. “Yeah, I guess. Maybe I’m not in the right field.”

“No, I just mean — like, our software  _ is _ helpful, and at the end of the day, we wouldn’t have jobs if we didn’t sell it to people, but — ”

“Relax,” Willy says, touching a hand to Zach’s forearm. Zach tries his best to not read into the gesture. “I’m not insulted or anything. Or under the impression that working in sales is altruistic. But my favourite thing about it really  _ is _ helping people,” Willy leans in, “That, and the steak lunches.”

That startles a laugh out of Zach; a genuine, chest-bubbling laugh. Hardly the tight, forced laughter that permeates these events. The Willy standing in front of him, fingers curled around a miniature plastic wine glass, looking relaxed and comfortable and  _ nice _ is the complete opposite of the guy Zach met in the elevator last week. Admittedly, Zach’s probably acting differently than he was in the elevator, as well. But Zach’s glad they’re meeting on these terms, now. It’s like those sayings about books and covers or first impressions not always being right and all that.  

Willy’s all thin charm over robust sincerity, it turns out. Like being irresistible is a default, a coat he wears because, as it turns out, the rest of him is really fucking genuine once you get past the surface. He laughs at Zach’s dry jokes, tells Zach about growing up in Sweden, and is only distractingly hot 75% of the time, which Zach counts as a win. He’s an outlier as far as sales people go, so much so that it makes Zach feel a little guilty for stereotyping them in the first place. When the waiter comes by with another tray of little plastic wine glasses, Zach immediately reaches for two more, and his hand brushes Willy’s when he hands him one. Before he even realizes it, they’re pushing on seven o’clock, and the wait staff is slowing starting to clear away empty trays. The crowd has thinned out significantly, but Willy and Zach are still stood in their little corner.

“Give me your phone,” Willy instructs, mouth full of goat cheese and burst tomato crostini.

Zach digs around his pocket and procures his phone. It’s the fourth time their skin has made contact tonight, and the onslaught of chills down Zach’s spine is no less alarming.

“I,” Willy says, tapping away at Zach’s phone, “am going to text you.”

“I’ll be waiting,” Zach answers, which is maybe the kind of flirty remark that just borders on pathetic, but Zach’s had too much red wine to possibly care.

 

 

On his way home, Zach nearly texts the guys  _ I met someone _ , but he thinks better of it by the time he boards the subway. It’s… he didn’t  _ really _ “meet someone” in the sense they’re probably hoping for. He happened to get along really well with a guy who’s guts he hated for approximately ten minutes last week, that’s all. The guys would expect a full rundown, a play-by-play of the evening, anyway, when it doesn’t really feel like the kind of situation that warrants that reaction. It feels more like something private and nice, a smile that will break slowly, quietly across Zach’s face when he remembers it later on. Willy said he would text, but Zach doesn’t get his hopes up, on principle. It’s easier, that way. Regardless, this was definitely the most he’s ever enjoyed a work function, and that’s enough for him, as he drifts off into a dreamless sleep that night. 

  
  


In the morning, Zach makes his bed right away, like he always does. He eats a bowl of bran flakes and sips a mug of green tea, like he always does. He hums to himself while brushing his teeth, like he always does. 

He chokes down two Advil with a glass of water to numb the very real red wine headache. And he positively, most definitely, does  _ not _ check his phone.

Zach’s not  _ great _ with rejection. ( _ Shocker _ .) He likes stability and order and status quo. ( _ Ditto _ .) And he absolutely doesn’t like putting himself out there only for the universe, or in some cases, a specific person, to decide he’s not worth it and imply that he should maybe just shrink back to the sad depths from which he emerged in the first place.

Point is, he doesn’t check his phone, because he really doesn’t want to know if Willy texted. Actually, he really doesn’t want to know if Willy  _ didn’t _ text. 

Zach can handle rejection. ( _ Well, debatable. _ ) He can’t handle indifference. Knowing he actually made such a lackluster impression on somebody that they didn’t even bother texting hurts more than flat-out rejection. As long as he leaves his phone in in the Schrodinger’s box of unchecked text purgatory, he avoids confronting any of his deeply-buried insecurities. As a result, he avoids confronting the possibility that Willy, the hot, charming sales guy who miraculously didn’t remember their botched first meeting, has not yet forgotten him. And Zach is fine to exist in that liminal space for a bit. He can hang out there, at least until either unchecked curiosity or the necessity of using his phone gets the better of him.

In the end, his phone must sense something is wrong, because it starts vibrating in Zach’s pocket on his brisk walk to the subway. It turns out to be a wrong number, but when Zach hangs up the call, his lock screen is blank. Zach suddenly can’t remember if accepting a call wipes the notifications from your lock screen or not, so he unlocks his phone to double check and —

(Besides a snapchat from Brownie —)

 

— he has no new messages.

  
  



	2. Chapter 2

Zach’s next week is —

Well, it’s fine.

The whole Willy-not-texting-him thing actually doesn’t bother him as much as he worried it might, and he bounces back pretty quick. Maybe that means he’s getting better at handling rejection as he gets older. Maybe it’s just that he can make himself indifferent to these kinds of things if he tries hard enough. Either way, Zach’s okay. He’s fine.  _ Really _ .

Besides, Brownie’s been turned down by more people in a single night than Zach has ever been interested in in his entire life. So that helps keep things in perspective a little.

He’s felt worse about himself, is what actually cushions the blow. Worse about himself and worse about other situations, so this one, proportionally, isn’t a huge deal. Zach’s always thought of himself as a pick-yourself-up-by-the-bootstraps kind of guy — so he does what he does kind of best, and he gets on with it.

Zach gets on with it so well, in fact, that he decides to redouble his efforts at the gym instead of, like, mope around unproductively. He even agrees when Auston suggests they go for a run one day instead of their usual lunchtime weightlifting in the company gym. They don’t go for runs often, because Zach is very aware that his arms are his best feature, and he likes to restrict cardio to once a week, but Auston insisted. 

Auston’s a good guy — obviously smart but isn’t showy about it like some people, and he’s quiet and likes to push himself at the gym, which are all qualities that endear Zach to him as a work friend. He’s in IT, which means he basically knows everyone at the office since he’s always fixing their equipment, and the paradox of tech geeks completely floundering when it comes to the hardware of their machines never fails to amuse Zach. Their friendship is appropriately casual for a work friendship, and Zach likes it that way. Not in, like, a weird way or anything. He just likes compartmentalizing what (admittedly few) friends he has. 

“So I’ve been… talking… to this guy…” Auston says, between breaths. They’re running through a nearby park, and Zach’s a little worried he’s going to get back to the office covered in mosquito bites. “But I feel… like he’s keeping me… at arm’s length...”

“That sucks,” Zach pants, unsure of what else to really say to that. Usually, he and Auston just talk about work-related stuff, like the menu changes in the cafeteria or Kyle Dubas’ latest lingo adoption (recently, it’s been calling things  _ fire _ ). Occasionally, Auston will share some of the gossip that filters into the IT department, as a natural consequence of fixing other people’s computers. Just last week, some intern brought Auston his laptop after it crashed while he was downloading some incredibly sketchy porn. On his  _ work computer _ . Zach still struggles to believe people could be that dense, but Auston swore on his new iPhone it was true.

That very iPhone starts ringing, muffled and distant, from the pocket of Auston’s basketball shorts about halfway into their run. Auston breaks off, veering over to one side of the gravel path to check the call.

“Oh, shit, I gotta take this,” Auston says, giving him an apologetic look.

“S’fine,” Zach answers, jogging in place, “Go ahead, I’ll meet you back at the office.”

Auston gives him a thumbs up and hangs back to answer his phone. Zach forges on. His shins are hurting and he feels a little like throwing up, and he’s reminded of why he really hates running alone. At least the park is a decent place for a run. It’s overcrowded with other joggers, and people trying to stuff salads in their faces on their designated lunch hours, but it’s a green little oasis in the middle of the city, so Zach can’t exactly blame them for it.

He’s so focused on his feet that he barely registers an oncoming jogger, and they collide before Zach has a chance to reroute. Zach, luckily, has a low center of gravity, and works on his stabilizing muscles twice a week, so he manages to stay upright. The person he barrels into doesn’t share his luck, and is sent backwards on their ass. Zach leans down to apologize when he realizes  _ who _ he just bumped into —

_ Willy _ .

Instead of an apology, the first words that regrettably leave his mouth are, “You never texted me,” which is maybe something a, like, serial killer would say to justify maiming someone. Not that Zach would have ever intentionally maimed someone for not texting him, or that this even technically counts as  _ maiming _ , but —

“Uh, what?” Willy says, wincing as he shifts to sit in a more normal position.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to run you over,” Zach amends. He crouches down to face Willy head-on, because he feels a little weird just looming over the guy he just barreled down. “But you — why didn’t you text me?” Zach hates the undertone of desperation in his voice. He blames it on his oxygen expenditure.

Willy just looks up at him blankly as he rubs small circles over his left ankle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Seriously? Come on.”

“I really think you have me confused for someone else,” Willy says, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck, “But, hey, sorry that somebody didn’t text you back. That’s a dick move.”

_ You are _ , Zach thinks.

Willy flashes a blinding smile up at Zach and, smooth as butter, adds, “I would’ve texted, for the record.”

It’s then, that absent, unknowing grin, completely devoid of other meaning, that Zach realizes Willy must honestly not remember him. There’s this weird split second where Zach sees his options laid out in front of him: either to carry on and go along with Willy’s apparent short-term memory loss or to tell Will he knows his name and an assortment of miscellaneous facts about him and possibly scare him off. It’s like a pick-your-own adventure story, but Zach’s completely out of his depth here, grasping for protocol. He suddenly wishes he’d agreed to watch  _ 50 First Dates _ with Mitch a few weeks ago when he asked.

“Thanks,” Zach says. It’s not quite déjà vu, what he’s feeling. It’s like he’s being hit by a truck, if he’s being honest, because he forgot that being the sole focus of Willy’s attention left him feeling breathless and jumping out of his skin last week. And it was precisely that feeling he wanted to forget, when he realized Willy wasn’t going to text him. He feels it now; the precision of Willy’s attention, the ease he feels when he tells him, “I’m Zach,”

“Willy,” is the smiley response. And then, “So, not that I don’t enjoy bumping into attractive strangers, or anything, but I think I should probably get back to my office so I can ice this ankle.”

“Yeah, of course, yeah,” Zach stumbles. He still feels a little scattered and unsure, having to pretend this is the first time they’ve ever met. He figures it follows logically for him to ask, “Where… do you work?”

“Only a few blocks away. A company called Sportify.”

Zach smiles, but it feels weird having to tell Willy information he should, by all rights, already know. “Yeah, I work there, too.”

Willy lights up. “No way! That’s awesome, man. We’re work buddies!”

Zach nods. He’s not sure, then, what instinct guides him to say, “Let me at least carry you back,” but he figures it’s in large part due to the empty feeling that crawls to the top of his throat at the thought of letting Willy just walk away after he’s been presented with yet another fresh start.

“Uh, it’s kind of far…” Willy starts.

“Really, I insist.”

“No, I’m quite fine. I also have my… dignity and all that —”

“I promise, it won’t be that bad. And right now, I really wouldn’t suggest you put more pressure on that ankle,” Zach says cautiously. He doesn’t wanna be the dick who doesn’t take no for an answer, but also Willy’s ankle has swollen to at least three times its original size and it’s really worrisome.

“Well, I guess, if you don’t mind —”

Before he can think twice, Zach squats down to catch Willy’s knees in the crook of one arm and his shoulders in the other. Willy makes a startled noise. Maybe a piggy-back would have been an easier way to go. Less suggestive than a bridal carry, probably. Less of a chance for Willy to gaze up at Zach, as though seeing him with fresh eyes. Zach supposes that he probably  _ is _ , but that’s far, far from the point.

Willy looks slightly dazed as Zach heads in the general direction of their office. “This is nuts. How are you even... ? God, I bet you could curl me right now,” he says. He sounds like he’s mostly kidding, but Zach does, just to make a point. “Oh my god, you’re — this is —  _ god _ .”

“You’re not actually that heavy,” Zach replies. It’s kind of a lie, but he finds himself wanting to keep bantering with Willy, possibly forever. It should feel weirder than it does, probably.

“Fuck you, yes I am.”

Zach curls him again, just to make a point. Although he’s not sure if the point is proving to Willy that he doesn’t weigh that much or showing Willy his incredibly arm strength, but. “Also keep in mind what a gentleman I’m being,” he says. It’s this weird kind of flirting that Zach’s unused to — the kind that he seems to be able to flitter in and out of without thinking. Flirting has always, in Zach’s experience, been a forced, transparent thing. Usually with an ulterior motive, part of a game for which Zach’s never been clear on the rules. It’s the same whether he’s flirting with girls or guys — part of him always just wishes he… weren’t. Like, that they could speed past that awkwardness and either just get to the sexy stuff or whatever or just stop pretending that any of the leering feels natural. Mitch would say  _ flirting is the journey not the destination _ , and Zach would say he’s too perpetually tired for this. 

But with Willy, something’s different. Zach felt it at the mixer, and he feels it now. He can’t quite place  _ what _ makes it different, and he doesn’t like that. For now, though, he focuses on carrying Willy back to the office henceforth unscathed.

“Your name is Zach…?”

“Hyman.”

“Zach Hyman is a gentleman,” Willy says, with a solemn nod that Zach feels in his bicep. “Noted. I’ll be sure to tell my parents.”

Zach stumbles, nearly tripping over a pebble and killing them both.

Zach kind of hates how attractive Willy is when he laughs, “That was a joke. Please don’t drop me.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Zach mutters, suddenly feeling like there’s a lot at stake, here.

“Good, because I’d say I’m already pretty trusting of a stranger who just mowed me down in the middle of the park. I don’t wanna have any regrets.”

He wonders if it’s incredible fortune, or incredible bad luck, that he gets to keep re-introducing himself to Willy. This has been his second clean slate, although so far, he’s been left feeling like something’s missing from the equation, something he’s not getting. In the same vein, why is it they keep meeting in circumstances that devolve pretty quickly into flirty banter? Why does the universe keep barging in, as if to show him this incredible person who’s so far out of Zach’s league just for fun, this person that will never remember him and will never have a chance with. It’s cruel and bizarre, and Zach would be ruminating harder if Willy wasn’t still in his arms, looking like a goddamn Disney prince and radiating sunny energy. 

When they finally make it back to the office, Zach’s biceps are nearly screaming. He carefully deposits Willy back on his feet, holding an arm out to steady him.

“Sorry again,” Zach says.

“No worries. But you owe me lunch,” Willy says.

“Yeah, that’s probably fair.” Zach answers, wondering if Willy will even remember him tomorrow.

Willy lets go of Zach’s arm gingerly in favour of hopping on his good foot towards the main elevator bank.

“Put some ice on that!” Zach calls.

Willy looks over his shoulder. “That was kind of the whole point, remember?”

Zach attributes the feeling of static spreading through his bloodstream to sheer terror. As far as the track record goes, Zach is 0 for 2 in terms of Willy remembering him. He realizes that as the elevator doors slide shut, and Willy is safely on his way up to the twenty-eighth floor, there’s nothing about this encounter that would incline him to believe Willy will remember him. 

 

 

It shouldn’t matter, really. He doesn’t  _ know _ this person. They’ve had several introductions to date, each one feeling wildly different from the other, with absolutely no throughline to even guide Zach to a logical, complete picture of  _ who _ Willy is. But there’s something about Willy that Zach feels himself reluctantly drawn to, something that makes the thought of him being forgotten again sting in places Zach has kept dormant for so long he forgot they existed.

 

 

The next morning is all frantic Skype calls and last-minute requirements from demanding stakeholders and not a single moment to himself. His focus is drawn so taut in several other directions that he almost misses the message that pops up in the corner of his screen, blinking at him insistently.

 

 

_ Hey ankle breaker _ , it says, as Zach opens the chat window. When he spots Willy’s name at the top of it, Zach’s heartrate kicks it up a few extra BPMs, and he tamps down the giddy feeling radiating off him in what he assumes must be palpable waves.

_ Do I want to know how you found me?  _ He writes back.

_ This isn’t exactly a big company _ , Willy writes. And then,  _ Thought you might wanna take me for lunch now _

There are plenty of trendy, expensive restaurants around. In the past, Zach has, unwittingly, paid sixteen dollars for a tuna wrap. Everyone knows the sales people have a loophole that lets them use their company credit cards to buy work lunches, and most of them will take advantage of this privilege, even if they’re not entertaining clients. Zach knows by now that Willy’s not like most sales people, but he half-expects him to pick one of the dime a dozen boutique sandwich shops or curated salad bars or gastro pubs for their lunch. When Zach googles the name of the restaurant Willy tells him, he finds that’s not the case at all.

The diner Willy chooses is painted in muted colours, with chipped linoleum floors and sticky vinyl booths. It provides no reprieve from the oppressively humid midsummer Toronto air, and Zach notices they only have a single rickety air conditioning unit hung in the far window. When he and Willy sit opposite one another at a booth, a waitress in a yellow dress with an apron tied around her waist places two ceramic coffee cups in front of them and pours them each a steaming cup while handing them their menus.

“Cute place, right?” Willy says, eyeing the menu lazily. “There’s nothing like it around here.”

In true diner fashion, the menu has about four dozen pages, half of which are dedicated to daily specials, and there’s a shiny red jukebox way down by the back.

“I like it,” Zach says, and finds himself meaning it. Though he’s not sure how much of him liking this place has to do with his delight that Willy picked it over some crowded Instagrammable restaurant.

“So,” Willy says, after they place their orders, “Zach Hyman is a gentleman. What else?” He rests his chin in the palm of his hand and looks at Zach expectantly. Then, ostensibly out of nowhere, “Zach Hyman has really nice eyes.”

“My eyes are ordinary,” Zach replies, almost instantly.

“Well, now that’s a total lie.”

Zach knows Willy’s just trying to be nice, or flirty, or whatever, but he’s also stared at his reflection in the mirror enough times to know precisely how ordinary his eyes are. “Like, your eyes are  _ really _ pretty,” he explains, “and I’m not just saying that because they’re blue. Cause blue eyes aren’t the be all and end all, I know. But mine, they don’t compare  _ at all _ . They’re super boring compared to your eyes, and I’m fine with that,”

Willy gawks at him a little. “I wish that hadn’t come in exchange for putting yourself down, but thanks?”

Zach blushes, admonishing himself for opening a probably-date with a self-deprecating monologue on his plain eyes. The conversation recovers quickly, because Willy’s not only a good talker but he’s a  _ pointed _ talker. He’s got topics he wants to cover, and ways to transition between them, and Zach takes a moment to be impressed by it while also being completely swept away in it.

“So, okay,” Willy says, while the waitress places their food down in front of them. It looks like he’s gearing himself for another segue, “You graduated school, got this job here, but what else? What do you do for fun? What makes you happy?” 

That’s a loaded question, although Zach’s sure Willy doesn’t realize it. For as long as he can remember, Zach’s had every aspect of his life planned out down to the letter, but there’s this huge, cavernous gap that he never accounted for —

— happiness.

Zach always gotten top marks, he went to university for software engineering on a partial scholarship, and he’s done everything he should to get him to an ostensibly good, solid place in life. The general malaise and uncertainty of what to do once you’ve attained everything you’ve ever planned for, he assumed, was just part and parcel with the rest of it.

But taking strides to achieve something as intangible and fleeting as  _ happiness _ never occurred to him once, not even as a blip on his radar. Sure, there are things in his life that make him happy. And there are other, loftier goals he’s kept in mind, more as a kind of safety net than something he’s fully considered chasing. He’ll never fail if his dream of becoming a published author stays just that… a dream.

And love. Well, Zach’s never been particularly gifted in that area of life. So he mostly doesn’t even bother.

He tries his best to sum that up in a way that doesn’t make him sound too utterly depressing, capping it off with, “I think it’s more important to make sacrifices earlier on. Because, when you think about it, happiness is a pretty impossible thing to just chase blindly.”

Willy scrunches up his nose. “You’ve got it all wrong. If you’re not trying to make yourself happy  _ now _ , you’re going to regret it later on!” he insists.

“Not how I see it,” Zach replies, shaking his head.

“You’re pretty cynical, huh?” Willy asks. He looks amused, and a little sad.

Zach shrugs. “I’d say I’m just realistic.”

Willy shifts to lean over the table, club sandwich dangling from his left hand. “See, that’s exactly what a cynic would say.”

“Well, what about you? You’re working at a job you don’t even  _ like _ .”

Willy pauses, mid-bite. “How do you know that?”

Zach curses internally. He forgot that’s something Willy told him last week, at the work mixer. He’s starting to lose track of these two timelines. “Wild guess?” he answers.

“I mean, you’re right,” Willy admits. “I wanna do something where I help people more. But it’s not like I just accept that the job I have now is the one I’ll have forever.”

“I don’t either.”

Willy rolls his eyes. “Oh, sure. You’re just going about your life as though your job is a prison sentence. What about enjoying the moment?”

“I don’t trust people who try to live  _ too much _ in the moment. You should always be looking ahead. Or, like, have some plan.”

Willy tips his head back laughing. “ _ Wow _ ,” he sighs, “when I got knocked on my ass by a hot stranger, I thought it was gonna be some kinda meet cute. Who knew I’d end up with such a curmudgeon?”

Zach just steals a fry off Willy’s plate in retaliation. He thinks back to Mitch’s explanation of a meet cute and blushes, despite himself. He doesn’t even wanna touch being called  _ hot _ by Willy with a ten-foot pole. But it’s that easy brand of flirting, again. The kind that makes Zach feel like a helium balloon with the end untied, dizzying around the atmosphere before eventually descending back down to earth.

“I’m not a curmudgeon,” he says after a beat, but it’s devoid of any real protest because, on a not-so-deep level, Zach knows it’s true. He’s even tempted to just embrace it, at this point.

“What do you wanna do with your life?” Willy ask. “Like, when you picture what your life would be like as a kid, as someone who could still  _ dream _ , what did it look like?”

It’s surprisingly easy to tell him. “I’m an author,” Zach says, slowly, hoping to indicate to Willy that this isn’t information he doles out to just anyone. “When I picture my dream life, I’m an author.”

The corner of Willy’s mouth tips up. “Now, was that so hard? What kind of books do you want to write?”

“Fiction,” Zach replies. And then he wavers, because he’s never told anyone this, “maybe children’s books.”

“So why can’t you be a children’s author?”

“Because it’s nearly impossible to get anything published these days between dwindling book sales and increased competition. And if I don’t get published, my only option is to make my writing available on the internet, which isn’t lucrative enough for me to quit my day job and is really, frankly, depressing.”

Willy scoffs. “See? There you go again, getting cynical.”

“I can’t just  _ become _ an author, Willy. There are, like, fifty steps to take first.”

“No offense, but that’s bullshit. Maybe you don’t pump out a book on your first try, or get published on your first try. But there are ways you can become an author.”

It’s all a bit too much, suddenly. Zach feels bristled, seventeen shades of uncomfortable with this conversation. Willy makes him feel exposed, seen, like he’s got x-ray goggles that can pierce through several layers of skin and muscle tissue and bone and zero in on Zach’s soul. Zach prefers not to self-examine too carefully while the sun’s still up, and he especially prefers not to do it in the company of a virtual stranger. Willy’s hitting on some nail that Zach actively chooses to keep in far off hidden corners of his psyche, and it’s starting to be too much. “What about you? What’s your  _ dream job _ ?”

“I always wanted to be a teacher,” Willy answers immediately. Zach’s glad he took the very obvious subject change without objection. “I’ve got a lot of siblings, and I mean a  _ lot _ , and I always used to pretend to teach them, when I was younger. Then I got to a point where I could actually teach them things, and I loved that.”

Zach’s charmed, feeling himself smile just because he’s happy to, and not even just because he’s no longer the focus of the conversation. Willy continues telling Zach about his childhood dream of being a teacher, and Zach continues listening. It’s nice, listening to Willy. There’s something reassuring about his self-confidence. It’s not ego, really — more like he’s just really sure of himself and that manifests in comforting ways. There’s something about Willy’s disposition that makes Zach wish he could break a piece of it off and lock it up inside himself for safe keeping. He also finds it reassuring how this version, or whatever, of Willy is equally sincere as the one Zach met at the work gala, and equally assertive as the one he met in the stuck elevator.

“It’s competitive, though. Teaching, I mean. So instead I went to school for business.” Willy says.

“Because business  _ isn’t _ competitive?”

“Because I was eighteen and I had to pick a major,” Willy retorts with a grin. It’s nearing the end of their lunch hour, and the last thing Zach wants is to ask for the bill, to shatter the bubble they’ve created for themselves in this anomalous diner.

They linger on the walk back to the office. Well, as much as is logistically possible when, the second they cross the threshold to the diner, they are very much back in the middle of downtown Toronto. Every so often, their sides will press into each other. Out of necessity, of course, to avoid bumping into oncoming pedestrians, but it makes something in Zach’s stomach turn nonetheless. Zach’s insides are tangled, like a garden overgrown with weeds that have laid roots so deep he can’t even begin to detangle them.

 

 

Zach likes to think his life returns to normal after their lunch date, but it’s the exact opposite. He can’t go two minutes without thinking about what Willy said when he cornered him about the idea of happiness. He can barely answer his emails without wondering what life would be like if he shared Willy’s outlook.

What’s more, Willy actually  _ remembers him _ this time, which means Zach has to confront said outlook on a semi-regular basis. They IM constantly at work, mostly just long, incoherent strings of emojis meant to denote how their respective days are going, and sometimes Willy will heckle him to go for coffee. They’ll vent to each other, or Willy will chide him for not working on his book, and Zach’s grateful to have an acquaintance as compositely different as Willy. It’s a safe little thing, and Zach likes it because he’s able to keep it in a neat little compartment in his mind, and justify doing so to himself with the pretty impressive explanation that it’s just  _ nice _ to have someone at the office he can share his daily strifes with. On the whole, though, Zach just starts to feel less bogged down by life. And he doesn’t mind it at all.

“What are you doing?” Brownie asks, when they’re hanging out one night, eyes narrowed suspiciously.

Zach pauses. “I’m not doing anything.”

“Yes, you are. You were  _ humming _ .”

“Was I?” Zach says, genuinely confounded. He doesn’t remember humming.

“Dude, I have never heard you hum. Humming is for, like, joyful people.”

That’s a little uncalled for. Zach is plenty joyful. “I’m plenty joyful,” he says. Brownie snorts, training his attention back on the massive plate of sushi between them, and Zach files the event away under  _ Confusing Miscellaneous Events _ and moves on.

The only downside to this  _ thing _ with Willy is Zach knows it probably won’t last. At least, it won’t develop into what Zach had initially hoped it would develop into, back when they met at the networking event. Neither of them have made a move beyond harmless flirting, and Zach doesn’t like putting himself  _ out there _ as a  _ rule _ , no matter how cushioned he feels by the gentleness of the other person’s spirit. Not to mention rejection at this point would sting far more than when Willy didn’t text him back after a few hours of conversation. Zach doesn’t enjoy the feeling of utter powerlessness, even if the other Willy-related mood boosts have started sparking some inexplicable motivation to  _ do more _ . Honestly, though, sometimes thinking about Willy gives him an ulcer. He knows it’s illogical, to feel stressed out by a quasi-friendship, and yet every time he thinks of Willy, he feels like he’s trying to protect cotton candy from the rain with nothing but a shitty umbrella. Like he’s trying to protect a very fragile, temporary brand of happiness from a maelstrom of external factors. That’s probably why, when Mitch skirts around the subject of his love life, Zach holds back telling the guys about Willy. He doesn’t feel great about it, but he’s not lying, exactly, either. At least, he can compartmentalize the lie by omission and not feel too guilty for it.

Sometimes, though, he has trouble contending with the fact that he feels a connection to Willy, but that it probably won’t go anywhere. The boundaries of what they can and can’t say to each other are obscure when they seem stuck in flirty purgatory.  _ Flurgatory _ , Zach thinks humourlessly.

Willy’s persistent, though. He’s also somehow not turned off by Zach’s significantly less magnetic personality, which just makes things more confusing. He must sense that he’s got enough sunshine for the both of them, because he just laughs off Zach’s general unenthusiastic demeanor as a fun quirk and moves on. Yet at the same time, it makes Zach feel like he’s a puzzle Willy’s trying to piece together. Even though Zach knows all he’s given Willy are edge pieces. It just doesn’t make sense to him that Willy would have such a vested interest in Zach’s life when they barely know each other.

Zach’s packing up for the evening one day, when he finds Willy striding over to him.

“I have a great idea,” Willy says, with a grin so wide his face might break. “Call in sick tomorrow.”

Zach huffs a laugh and shoves his water bottle into his messenger bag. “Why would I do that?”

“Tomorrow, you’re taking the day off and writing!”

Zach wrinkles in slight irritation. It was a long day, and the last thing he wants is to have to gently rebuke Willy for trying to, like, butt into his life under the guise of helping. He slings his bag over his shoulder and starts towards the exit, holding the door open for Willy as he goes. “I don’t understand why I would do that.”

“Because. If you’re here all day, and you’re exhausted when you get home, you’re not going to be inspired to write. You need a full day, just to yourself and your ideas, if you want to get anywhere!”

Willy’s talking as though he’s ever written anything, but it’s clear he hasn’t. Hasn’t cruised the line between the soul-crushing reality that becoming a successful writer is almost impossible these days and the desperate hope that your writing is special enough to make it. Hasn’t spent five hours at a Starbucks in front of the same blank Word document that’s been saved as  _ Draft 1 _ in his computer for weeks. Hasn’t wondered if there’s even really a point to it, anyway, because the money and royalties from getting one book published still isn’t enough to afford rent in Toronto, so he’d have to keep his day job either way.

“And because,” he continues, “I may or may not have a friend who works for Penguin Canada. He’s an intern, for now, but he’s working under this apparently  _ great _ editor and — ”

“Look, I have to ask. Why are you doing this?” Zach asks, this time not bothering to hide the exasperation from his voice. When they board the elevator together, Zach gets hit with the malaise of being in this exact scenario a few week ago — alone in an elevator with an irritating Willy.

“Doing what?”

“Getting so… involved. Why do you care about what I do?”

“I’m just trying to help —”

“I don’t need help. And I don’t need your pity or your connections or whatever. I know you clearly don’t think I’m capable of doing this on my own, but I’m okay. Really.”

The harsh words ring too intimate in the confined space of the elevator, with every single connotation reverberating in echoey waves off the metal walls. This is a conversation Zach would prefer to have out in the open. In the middle of a nameless field. Or just not at all.

Willy smile falters. But then, he squares himself and levels Zach with, “Those are your words, not mine. I just wanted you to see that life doesn’t just have to be about what you do between nine and five.”

Zach rolls his eyes. He doesn’t understand how Willy is so comfortable just sticking his nose where it doesn’t belong, perfectly fine to tell Zach how he should live his life without stopping to consider whether Zach even wanted this intervention in the first place. His immediate instinct is to go on the defensive. “You think I don’t know that? Besides, calling in sick to my  _ actual _ job isn’t really going to offset that, you know.” The elevator tugs them down floor by floor, and maybe the confined space isn’t giving Zach a whole lot of room to parse his thoughts, because the next thing he manages to say is, “I was fine before you came along. Or, not  _ fine _ , but I was  _ comfortable _ . I was getting by. And I just… I see what you’re trying to do, but I don’t need you butting in and saving me from my own life.”

The truth is, Zach doesn’t want Willy wiggling in and making room for himself in Zach’s life, if this whole thing is going nowhere anyway. Maybe he’s being childish, but he’s known Willy for  _ two weeks _ and he already feels himself changing. He’s not sure that’s a good thing, to be honest. Willy just cares  _ so much _ about what Zach does that Zach really can’t wrap his mind around it. What does it matter to Willy, whether or not Zach is fully happy one hundred percent of the time? That’s unrealistic. Besides, Zach won’t ever be able to match Willy’s level of investment or enthusiasm about his own life, let alone about others, and the imbalance of that dynamic alone is probably unhealthy.

Willy’s lips press into a thin line. Zach sees the fire raging behind his eyes, but he can’t quite bring himself to back down. “Okay, Zach. Sure. I’ll leave you alone. I’m sorry I said anything.” His voice is clipped, like he’s restraining himself after every word, and it makes Zach feel a little hollow, knowing he hardened Willy like that.

When the elevator reaches the lobby, Zach gives Willy one last glance glance, and there’s a finality to it that leaves him uneasy for the rest of the night.

 

 

Zach pretends not to notice when Willy’s IMing stops. At first, he figures it’s just a busy time of the year. With the new quarter ramping up, Willy probably has new sales prospects to look into, or whatever. Eventually, after a few days of radio silence, Zach realizes that’s it — he’s being ghosted for real this time. Not that he blames Willy. The things Zach said, even if he meant them at the time, were harsh in a way that wasn’t fair, and Zach wants to coil up and make himself as small as possible whenever he thinks of it. Willy’s status icon blinks green and mocking whenever Zach opens up the IM app and he wonders, a little desperately, if it’s even possible to right that wrong. 

He tries not to linger on that thought too long, though. He doesn’t know if he’s even equipped to be with someone who contains that much trust, that much faith in the things Zach considers distant dreams. Zach is all about the here and now; slogging through his work at this stage in his life in order to lay a foundation for a happier future. His happiness right now is relative, but it’s also comparatively irrelevant. Willy doesn’t think that way, though. Willy tries to find happiness in every corner of his life, even the ones boxed in by a terrible day job, and that’s downright  _ scary _ to Zach. The pressure to be happy, to thrive, would crush him, eventually. Because the last thing he wants is to wake up in his fifties and realize he wasted his youth chasing something  _ impossible _ .

 

 

Zach actually  _ misses _ Willy, though. That’s the problem. 

That’s kind of the whole problem.

It’s a weird feeling, missing someone. It’s unfamiliar and unsettling, even when he remembers that, ultimately, he doesn’t have a whole lot to miss. The worst part is, every time he thinks about missing Willy, he can’t quite bring himself to reach out first. All he wants to do is apologize, but it feels like an insurmountable task, loaded with a thousand implications that Zach thinks he’s too cowardly to wade through.

 

 

On Saturday, Auston invites him to a party at his place. They’ve never hung out outside of work, which has heretofore been completely fine by Zach, because he has a hard enough time hanging out with his non-work friends outside of work as it is. Incidentally, all of his non-work friends are busy tonight, so Zach doesn’t really have a reason not to go. Besides, it’s becoming increasingly depressing to be alone in his apartment, especially since every time he looks at his computer, he’s reminded of how he completely fucked things up with Willy.

Within twenty minutes of arriving at Auston’s, Zach bumps into Mitch.

“ _ Mitch _ , what are you doing here?”

Mitch shrugs. “Auston invited me.”

“ _ Auston _ ?” Zach looks behind him. “You…how do you…?” Then it hits him, “oh, my  _ god _ , you’re the guy Auston’s seeing.”

The revelation of this sudden interwovenness of his work life and personal life is something Zach feels completely unprepared for. He, a little selfishly, worries about the consequences of Mitch treating Auston the way Mitch treats other guys, but temporarily pushes the thought aside in favour of sharing the news with the group chat and grabbing himself a beer from the kitchen He’s busy popping the cap off a beer when he notices a mass of blond hair barreling towards him at full speed.

“ _ Hide me _ —” cries a familiar voice. Zach is momentarily confounded as  _ Willy _ — the Willy whose ankle he sprained, who sent him daily influxes of emoji messages, who Zach was a complete jerk to — tucks himself in the space between Zach’s back and the kitchen wall.

“I don’t think I  _ can _ ,” Zach hisses, letting himself be easily maneuvered around by Willy. 

“Sorry,” Willy answers, his voice muffled, “I think I just saw my ex and this is  _ really _ not a good time.”

Zach’s ears perk up at the mention of an ex. Until now, there’s been no talk of exes between them, especially no ex tangible enough to attend a party at Auston’s.

“You know, this apartment isn’t that big, so I have a feeling that trying to hide will only make it worse?” Zach says, giving Willy a gentle nudge with his forearm.

Willy wiggles his way out from his hiding spot. He casts a few sidelong glances, as though he’s worried someone’s going to jump out at him, before opting to settle in the kitty corner between the cabinet and the wall. 

“Okay, at least… at least pretend to be talking to me.” Willy says.

“I mean, technically we’re already talking, but yeah. I get it.”

“Can you just — ” Willy starts, before grabbing Zach’s shoulders and manhandling him closer, to create a barrier between the entrance to the kitchen and Willy himself. “Perfect.”

Zach, despite not at all enjoying the feeling of ex-related anxiety radiating off Willy in palpable waves, kind of doesn’t mind being chosen as Willy’s buffer. It hopefully means Willy’s anger has subsided enough to at least give them a chance to talk tonight. To clear the air, to tell Willy he didn’t mean what he said when snapped. He touches Willy’s forearm with, “Hey, I wanted to apologize.”

“For what?” Willy asks. 

And there it is again: that completely blank, friendly, trusting expression. 

He  _ sees _ it. Willy doesn’t know who he is.

Zach’s hopes for amending things, for moving forward with Willy, come crashing down with a single look.

“Never mind,” Zach mutters. When he proceeds to down his beer, it’s just so he can have something to do with his hands, so he can focus on something other than the gut-wrenching disappointment spreading through him like a toxin. Willy doesn’t remember him.  _ Again _ . He doesn’t know how it’s possible, but there’s no denying the absent friendliness Willy’s projecting right now, the lightness that’s only possible between two people meeting for the first person. Or, one person meeting the other for the first time. Whatever. 

“So, you…” Zach coughs. This is his fourth time meeting Willy, and he has no idea how much information he is supposed to have on-hand. Before they met, did Zach know Willy worked in sales? Did he know Willy worked for Sportify at all? “How do you know Auston?” Is the question Zach settles with. It’s pretty safe, he thinks.

After a few more left and right glances, Willy turns his full attention on Zach and his question. It’s startling, honestly, how blue his eyes are. Zach can’t seem to get used to how blue his eyes are.

“We work together!” Willy answers, after a rather large gulp of his drink.

“Oh, really? Yeah, I work with him, too. So I, uh, guess that means you and I must work together too and stuff —” Zach fumbles.

It’s not like every Willy Zach’s introduced himself to has been different. In fact, Zach’s acutely aware that they very much  _ are _ all the same person. But he’s learned different things from each one, piecing together a mosaic of this person who keeps forgetting him and —

Well, it’s just a pretty terrible situation to be in, in general.

It’s just that it makes Zach all self-reflexive. Makes him look inward, and shit. Like, what is it he’s doing to earn those tidbits, those insights from each version of Willy he encounters? Or, more importantly what is he  _ not _ doing, when one Willy withholds something another told Zach within their first five minutes of knowing each other? What vibes does Zach give off? Does he even  _ have _ vibes? He must not have great vibes, since it seems like he’s slowly losing Willy’s interest, and it’s not even been two full minutes.

He remembers, then, that this isn’t his first time trying to flirt with William Nylander. Even in different scenarios, Willy was always a constant: energetic, doting, and so fucking genuine it sends a hairline fracture through the center of Zach’s heart when he thinks about it too long.  After nearly a week without speaking, Zach feels desperate to catch them back up to the point they were at before Willy forgot him again. To work doubletime to get them there. So he scours his mind for the breadcrumbs of Willy trivia he picked up along the way, and considers how to put them to use. Willy has a thing for Zach’s arms. And he likes lame jokes, even if he pretends he doesn’t. And he loves,  _ loves _ talking about his family. 

Zach’s  _ got _ this.

He starts by crossing his arms over his chest, pushing his biceps forward as he does so. He watches, with satisfaction, the way Willy’s eyes track the movement. The rest just follows easily. 

At a certain point in the night, Zach’s reminded of all those time travel movies, where the protagonists have to let events take place in the same order, lest they break the space-time continuum. The space-time continuum, this precious thing nobody can trifle with unless they plan on fucking everything up in a huge chain reaction. Zach always assumed it wouldn’t be that hard to mess up. All you need to do is not let anyone know you’re from the future and, like, not prevent major events from taking place in people’s lives. 

Except, this isn’t a time travel movie. 

Except, the light keeps playing off Willy’s collarbones, and the beer starts making Zach’s veins warm, and they’re leaning so close, closer together than they ever have, and Zach gets careless. 

Except, Zach is desperate and frantic and impatient, and all he wants is to trigger something in Willy’s mind that will get him to  _ remember him _ .

“You’d make a great teacher, by the way.” Zach says, five beers in but still steady enough to catch Willy’s swaying hip and let his hand rest there. 

“What makes you say that?”

Zach shrugs. “You’re, like, so wonderful and patient. Not to mention  _ criminally _ good at helping people. All you were trying to do was help, and I’m sorry that I… I just — panicked. I freaked out.

“What are you saying?” Willy asks, with a laugh.

“Like, forget my bullshit for a second. That’s my own and I have to deal with that.  _ You _ , though. You should be a teacher like you always wanted to. And, like, help inspire people like how you did with your siblings.”

“Wait, sorry, I’m confused. How do you even know all that, dude?”

Zach feels every last drop of blood drain from his face.

_ Fuck _ .

“I can explain — ”

Willy’s shaking his head, still a deer in Zach’s headlights. “I’m gonna go — ”

“Wait!” Zach exclaims, reaching for Willy’s forearm. “Would you please just… wait? And let me explain?”

“Honestly, you’re kind of freaking me out. Like, a lot,” Willy says. “And besides, I have a personal rule about being places where I have to avoid more than one person.”

“You don’t have to avoid me. I promise, Willy. Come on, you  _ know  _ me,” Zach pleads, abandoning all earlier plans to not let anything slip.

“Zach,” Willy says slowly, patiently, “I’ve never seen you before in my entire life.”

“Yes, you have. You  _ have _ .” Zach insists. He wants to grab Willy, to pull him closer, back into the realm of reality where they are just two people with a wobbly, bizarre connection who share something Zach is afraid to put into words. The realm where Willy looks at him and  _ sees him _ . But Willy’s looking at him like Zach is something frightening, something to be cautious of, and it hurts enough that Zach keeps his hands to himself. “You know me, Willy. Just remember me,” his voice is thin and strangled when he manages to say, “ _ Please _ .”

Willy just shakes his head, disbelieving, before turning around to walk away. Zach watches him disappear down the hallway, quietly let himself out of Auston’s apartment. 

Not wanting to stay at the party any longer, Zach makes his way into the living to say goodbye to Mitch. He finds him sprawled in Auston’s lap, talking bright and animated while Auston just watches him with thinly-concealed awe. Zach doesn’t want to disturb them, so he just heads for the door. 

As if waiting for him to be alone and outside, everything makes its way to the surface, then.

“Why won’t the universe just give me a  _ FUCKING BREAK _ ?” He shouts, and it dispels a group of birds from a nearby tree, for which he feels slightly bad.

He just. 

He keeps getting these chances, and he keeps  _ fucking them up _ . What is it about him, what stupid impulse lives inside him that keeps making him trample over every single chance he has with Willy? What is he doing  _ wrong _ ? None of this makes sense, least of all why Zach feels so strangely tied to Willy. He initially thought their connection was bizarre and unique and kind of wonderful, but now, he has the distinct feeling he’s in some way cursed.

Zach wants to maybe punch a wall, or scream some more, but his idiot brain doesn’t let him do either of those things. Instead, it drives him knees-down into the damp lawn in front of Auston’s apartment building with a desperate, choked gasp. 

For the first time in his entire life, Zach feels hollow and petrified by his distinct lack of happiness. Zach’s always thought his cynicism gave him an edge, kept him from getting his hopes up and getting cheated out of the things in life that really mattered. Worse yet, he believed resistance to the pursuit of happiness was some kind of defining personality trait. It’s delusional to think that a single person could derail those years of single-mindedness. That Willy, in the short time he’s known him, unwittingly positioned himself like a beacon in Zach’s life, reminding him of what else was out there. And now that Zach’s just witnessed Willy slip through his clumsy goddamn fingers  _ again _ , before Zach even got a chance to reckon with all his confusing emotions, he’s never felt more lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What’s a good romcom without a little boy-gets-boy / boy-loses-boy, amirite? 
> 
> This chapter turned out a little longer than I originally planned, which is why it took a few more days for me to update, but I hope it was worth the wait!
> 
> And don’t worry, Finger Guns Dubas is poised to make his triumphant return in the final chapter!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is a thousand years late but I hope (?) worth it!

“Zach! Open up!” 

Zach groans at the subsequent sound of furious pounding against his door, and shifts his position on the couch as he pauses Netflix.

“Zach, come on!” Mitch’s voice is muffled by the front door. “We’re all super worried about you, is everything okay?”

Zach’s been spiralling steadily since Auston’s party, although the lines of heartbreak have been blurry, since, like, how heartbroken can you logically be after getting rejected by someone who doesn’t remember you? Caveats aside, Zach’s been riding his recent wave of malaise with a staggering lack of grace, and has accepted his barren fate by sticking to the confines of his six hundred square feet in a maladaptive state for the past week.

After a few more impatient raps at the door, Zach hears the sound of a key twisting in the latch, and sighs. He remembers giving Mo the spare key, telling him it was for  _ emergencies only _ , and wonders to what extent this qualifies as an emergency. Mitch, Brownie, and Mo jostle in through the doorway. their decidedly ineffective pseudo-whispers echo through Zach’s tiny front entrance, as they kick their shoes in an unceremonious pile on Zach’s very pointed GO AWAY doormat. Mo’s enveloping him in a massive bear hug the second Zach reveals himself from the living room doorway.

“Come on, buddy, tell us what’s wrong,” he says, and Zach lets out a squeak that’s muffled by the soft cotton of Mo’s crewneck.

They follow Zach into living room, and make themselves comfortable on his sofa. He’s a little defenseless in their collective presence, he realizes. They rarely all hang out at his place, not least of all because it’s tiny, but also just because Zach doesn’t like having people in his space. There’s a metaphor there, but Zach doesn’t have the energy to address it at the moment. 

Zach realizes, after a beat, that the room is silent, loaded, and three pairs of eyes are trained on him.

“What?”

“Start talking,” Brownie says, firm. “What’s with the funk?”

He’s momentarily touched that his friends even noticed he was in a funk at all, since he actively tried not to let it affect his interactions in the group chat. Then Mitch kicks him in the shin and he rescinds all warm, happy feelings for a later date. There’s a temptation to ignore Brownie’s line of questioning, pretend they’re all delusional and he’s actually fine,  _ really _ . But then he thinks about how he’s spent the past week huddled up in the far corner of the couch, mind wandering to the point where Netflix repeatedly had to ask if he was still watching  _ The Office _ . And he thinks about last weekend. The hurt, confusion, and several hundred other emotions he’s never really been great at processing  _ anyway _ , but now, even more so. Above all, he remembers that he doesn’t have to deal with this alone, and he heaves a sigh as he readies himself to tell them.

“So, remember a few weeks ago, when I got stuck in the elevator with that guy?” Zach starts, because he might as well start at the  _ very  _ beginning of his mess.

“The meet cute?” Mitch perks up.

Zach nods. He busies himself with stacking the coasters on his coffee table while he says, “Well, he’s kind of the whole reason for this,” Zach motions to his unwashed hair, the pajamas he’s opted not to change out of since he got home from work yesterday, and the general but very obvious disarray of his life right now.

He tells them everything. About a third of the way through the story, Brownie hops up and asks him to pause so he can make them all popcorn. Zach rolls his eyes, but directs Brownie to the cabinet above the microwave where he keeps his sachets of Orville Redenbacher. The popcorn helps, somewhat. It makes him feel removed enough from the situation, like he’s explaining how somebody else’s life has unfolded, that by the time he gets to the part about Auston’s party, he’s only trembling internally.

“Okay, what do you keep doing to blow it?” Brownie asks, once Zach’s finished his story. He’s staring into the distance, as though he’s seriously pondering the question.

Zach throws a kernel at him. “Why do you immediately assume I’m the one doing something to blow it?”

“Because you’re  _ obviously _ not the one who keeps forgetting who he is,” Brownie answers, with a roll of his eyes.

“Could just be short-term memory loss, though,” Mo says. “Like, maybe he was in an accident and hit his head or something?”

Zach shakes his head. “I don’t know. He remembered me for a whole week and a bit, then suddenly forgot me again.”

“ _ Or _ !” Brownie exclaims. “What if he’s an imposter? A con-man. What if he doesn’t even work at Sportify at all and this is just some persona he’s using to, like, fraud you?”

“You’re joking, right?”

Brownie shrugs, “A little,” he answers, and the guys all dissolve into a fit of laughter. Good. At least somebody’s getting some enjoyment out this.

“I bet this has to do with those wishes,” Mitch says suddenly, tapping Brownie’s chest with the back of his hand a few times. Brownie nods along. “This is probably the genie woman’s fault.”

“The genie woman?” Zach scoffs, “The two dollar wishes? That’s ridiculous.”

“ _ More ridiculous  _ than a guy you’ve had several romantic encounters with just not remembering you after every time?”

Zach reddens at the word  _ romantic _ , because sure, they flirted, but romance is another beast entirely. One that he’s conspired to avoid for some time now.

Mo tugs on the hem of Zach’s shirt. “I mean, when he dresses like  _ this _ , he might not exactly be the most memorable —”

“ _ Thank you _ , Mo,” Zach says with biting sarcasm. His friends are savage.

“I think,” Mitch declares, “we should go back to the genie and ask her if she actually granted our wish for you, or if she, like, cursed you or something!”

Zach buries his face in his hands. “You can’t be serious. You can’t possibly believe that there’s  _ any _ connection between — ”

“I  _ believe  _ you’ve spent too much of your life closing yourself off to everything that it’s worth it to explore this one possible avenue of explanation,” Mitch answers, tugging himself off the couch so he can drape himself over Zach’s back. “This guy’s obviously had an effect on you, bro.”

“That’s… not true,” Zach says, even though he knows it’s a pathetic lie.

Mitch snorts, identifying the falsehood right away. “Dude, you texted me about the  _ sunset  _ last week. You never do that.”

The moment devolves from there, because Brownie then coos, “Yeah, that’s way more Mo’s thing,” to which Mo defends himself by pulling Brownie into a headlock, Mitch falls back laughing, taking the rest of the popcorn bowl with him, and Zach goes to his room to change his shirt because he just needs to feel cleaner.

The thing is, Zach has never needed anybody to save him from himself. He’s also never needed anybody to come along and, like,  _ remind _ him of all the ways his life is potentially lacking. He’s self-aware, almost to a fault, so. He’s got that area covered. And yet here’s a guy who somehow held a mirror up to Zach’s life, showed him, in his own way, that there was so much more for Zach to reach for. He got Zach to confront himself, and not in a shallow, self-conscious way, either. The worst part about Willy isn’t this new sense of reevaluation, or all the do-overs, or the strange, visceral loneliness in his absence. It’s the feeling like both nothing and everything he does matters. It’s the knowledge that he’s spectacularly out of his depth, but that he’d choose to keep swimming, over and over, if it meant being on the receiving end of Willy’s graciousness. It’s absurd, Zach knows, to feel this deeply for another person — more than he’s ever felt for anyone else, possibly in his entire life — after such a short time. But then again, maybe it’s not. Maybe it’s just not-absurd enough for Zach to take this risk just for the sake of it.

If this is all happening because of a wish or a curse or whatever, then that means there’s a chance to fix things, to get Willy back. To, not pick up where they left off, exactly, but to right his wrongs and hopefully be the kind of person deserving of Willy in the first place. And, fuck it, if that means putting his faith in magic and the genies who grant wishes, even for a tooney apiece, then Zach can accept that. He can try to, anyway. 

 

 

So, here they are. 

Two in the afternoon on a cloudy Sunday afternoon.

Zach’s just a boy, standing in front of a dilapidated, potentially fraudulent genie’s store, asking it to help him. It might take grovelling. Zach is fully prepared to grovel.

The bells chime as Zach pushes the door open. He spies the genie woman at the far end of the narrow shop, standing in front of the long bookcase.

“You,” he says immediately, pointing in her direction, “I need to talk to you.”

“Oh boy,” he hears Mitch sigh behind him.

She looks at him expectantly through dark, spidery eyelashes and her bracelets clink noisily when she moves to sit down in front of him at the very table Mitch and Brownie cast their wishes.

Zach tells her, “Ever since we came here, it’s like I’m stuck in this weird dream. I met this guy, and I — honestly, he’s a little perfect. It’s irritating. He’s, like, funny and sweet and all those things, but… I don’t know… it’s like he pushes me? The problem is,” Zach takes a deep breath, “The problem is, he doesn’t remember me. We keep meeting and, barring one time, he’s just forgotten me every time we meet, and  _ we _ were wondering if it has anything to do with those wishes my friends made and — ”

“I don’t understand what you’re asking,” she says, slowly, and Zach gets the distinct impression he’s being lied to.

“I’ll — ” he starts, without a fully-formed plan in his mind. He’s about a half second away from dropping to his knees and groveling. Instead, he spots a Swiffer mop leaning against the far right corner of the room, and makes a break for it. “I’ll clean your floors? I can dust, too. Or, any help you might need — to an extent — really. Just. Please help me.”

So, the grovelling is happening regardless. At least he’s not on his knees? The genie looks at him appraisingly, and Zach wishes he could tell what she’s thinking. If he’s completely out of his mind by letting his desperation — and Mitch — get him to this point, or if there’s any hope. Even if it’s one tiny grain of sand in a big, wide desert, it would be worth all this, right? Willy is… he’s worth all of it.

Mitch takes this as his cue to cut Zach off by whistling, “So,” while absently tracing the beat up spines of the books that line the store’s shelves. “Speaking as one magic-believing person to another,” he says, and Zach ducks his head, “real talk — did you curse my friend here?”

For the first time since they entered her shop a month ago, the genie smiles. It’s as much of an affirmation as Zach pretty much needs. With an eyebrow raised, she answers, “We don’t deal in  _ curses _ , here,” and Mitch nods, like he’s her peer or something. “Your friend here must not have opened himself to the universe.”

Mitch hums, stroking his chin while he nods. “And how might he do that?”

The genie turns her focus back to Zach, and he’s again overcome by the distinct feeling of having his soul examined. “The end will come when you embrace the beginning,” she says.

Zach’s about to prod her for a serious solution that doesn’t sound like some kind of riddle, when Mitch tugs on his elbow and drags him out the door, shouting a quick  _ thank you _ to the genie as they go.

“Well, that was a complete waste of time,” Zach scoffs. “‘The end will come when you embrace the beginning?’ That’s some vague, open-ended bullshit if I’ve ever heard it.”

Mitch smacks him upside the head. Zach grimaces. “Are you  _ nuts _ ? She just told you how to solve your problem.”

Zach stops walking. “You understood that? She was talking in code, dude.”

“It’s not code if you know what to listen for.”

Zach rolls his eyes. “I’m pretty sure we were just barking up the wrong tree.”

In the daylight, the place looks much less fantastical and alluring than it did that fateful Thursday night a few weeks ago. The neon sign promising  _ WISHES GRANTED _ for two dollars flickers, almost mocking him, and compared to some of the other shops on the street, the whole place looks pretty run down. Maybe she should be charging more for wishes, after all, Zach thinks. 

Zach runs a hand through his hair, suddenly reconsidering everything. “I mean, what am I even doing? Chasing down a genie because of some guy I’ve met  _ four times _ ? This isn’t… me. I don’t do this.” It’s not the first time he’s had this thought since meeting Willy. Genies aside, Zach doesn’t  _ do _ , well, any of this. He doesn’t pine, he doesn’t crush; all his relationships have been pretty pragmatic in both their beginnings and endings, and that’s been fine until now.

“ _ No _ , you don’t. And that’s exactly why it’s important,” Mitch says, pushing his way into Zach’s personal space. 

They continue down the street, eventually winding up at a Starbucks on Bloor. Zach takes a moment to acknowledge the wretched coincidence of contemplating the logistics of his love life in potentially the same place Kyle founded the very company Zach works for. 

Eventually, Zach gets to a point where he’s been mulling the genie’s words over so much all the words start to lose their meaning. Mitch has been helpfully doodling on some paper napkins to illustrate the different conclusions he’s drawn.

“I’m pretty sure you just need to accept the fact that Willy isn’t going to remember you, and when you do that, he finally might.” Mitch says simply. 

Zach ignores him. That’s a ludicrous explanation. Zach says, “That’s a ludicrous explanation.”

Mitch takes a long, drawn-out sip of his vanilla bean frap, exaggerating his pull on the whipped cream. “You got a better idea? The  _ end _ of Willy forgetting you will come when you embrace the fact that he will forget you at the  _ beginning _ . Or something like that.”

“Maybe she was just full of shit and wanted us out of her store.” 

“Hey, that was the first logical explanation either of us have come up with  _ all day _ .”

“Are you sure you’re even qualified to be helping me?” Zach asks, his frustrating morphing into petulance in a way he’s not proud of. “What about your own love life? You’re not…” Zach starts, figuring out how to parse his question, “what’s going on with Auston, anyway?”

At the mention of his name, Mitch blushes a deep, violent scarlet. “Nothing, dude, we’re just hanging out.”

“You were hanging out really well last Saturday, eh?”

“Zachary, I see what you are trying to do, and I’ll have you know you won’t succeed.”

“Just… he’s my gym buddy and my friend, yeah? And you’re my friend, too.” Zach says, for good measure. His petulance is luckily mediated by the simple fact that Mitch has volunteered his Sunday to help tackle Zach’s stupid problems, which is ultimately pretty cool.

Mitch swats at him, blush deepening. “I’m not… he’s just… he’s really great.”

That’s all Mitch says on the matter, before turning back to put Zach on blast, but Zach’s happy enough in the knowledge that Mitch has, temporarily at least, put a hold on his serial dating tendencies. Besides, Auston is probably the coolest guy he works with, anyway. Mitch could do worse.

 

 

Come Monday, Zach is nowhere closer to solving the genie’s riddle than he was at Starbucks with Mitch. 

_ The end will come when you embrace the beginning _ .

It’s been impossible for Zach to focus on anything other than the genie’s cryptic message. In the shower, hunched over his cereal, on the subway, the words have repeated themselves on a loop through Zach’s mind. Worse yet is that it’s affecting his productivity at work.

The end of  _ what _ ? The  _ beginning _ of what, for that matter?

Zach bangs his head against his desk. His forehead hits his keyboard unceremoniously, adding several unwanted letters to the email he’s supposed to be composing. Beside him, Lorraine looks up with concern.

“Everything alright, dear?” She asks. She always calls him  _ dear _ , even though she’s barely forty.

“Fine, Lorraine. Just fine.” He answers, still bent.

It would seem the universe has resolutely  _ ignored _ his plea to cut him some slack. It’s not exhilarating or comforting in the slightest to know that Willy’s out there, living his life completely unaffected by Zach. Unaware of the things he’s made Zach feel, of the complete whirlwind he’s made of Zach’s life lately. It’s unfair, too, that he’s out there and he’s also unaware of the stupid, childish things Zach yelled at him, and that didn’t even get a chance to properly get mad at Zach and call him out for it. God, Zach  _ wishes _ Willy could call him out right now. What he wouldn’t give to have Willy grinning at him and telling him to stop being so damn cynical. If only that Willy knew that Zach’s been forced out of his cynicism by sheer necessity, the necessity to hang onto something that’s come into his life that he’s started to see as precious, as worth protecting and fighting for and traipsing into sketchy genie shops for.

Because Zach was fine with not being happy, before. He was fine with being alone, too. And now, neither of those options feel right. Not after he’s reached out his fingertips and practically traced what life could be like with Willy in it. The sugary brand of happiness that Zach used to attribute to childishness, and only found it to be so meaningful after it was utterly revoked. 

Zach wonders if he’s been looking at things the wrong way. Before, he just figured that every time he got close, the universe conjured up some way of making Willy forget him. Like it was butting in where it absolutely didn’t belong and just straight up ruining what could possibly be Zach’s only chance at a real connection with someone. But what if that’s all backwards? The universe has just been granting Zach chance after impossible chance for him to reinvent reinvent himself, to right wrongs, and change their beginning. 

_ The end will come when you embrace the beginning _ .

Maybe what he was missing was just  _ embracing _ the whole break-in-the-space-time-continuum thing, after all. Maybe what Mitch said had some truth to it, and what Zach should be doing is embracing the fact that he keeps getting these chances with Willy, rather than seeing it as a hurdle. Zach recognizes then that he has no other choice but to take Mitch’s suggestion, which is an indication that things are pretty dire — because there should  _ always  _ be another choice besides taking Mitch’s suggestion. But if he’s going to do this, he’s going to  _ commit _ .

So, over the course of the next week, Zach contrives to run into Willy wherever he can. He fits himself into spaces he wouldn’t ordinarily venture. He crosses enemy lines to the sales floor to make himself a coffee a few times, lingers around the salad bar at the cafeteria, and deigns to hold all elevator doors open for oncoming people — all so he can meet Willy again and somehow break the cycle. In so doing, Zach’s forced to interact with a whole lot of people who aren’t Willy, but based on the numbers, he figures he’s bound to run into him at  _ some _ point. The plan far from concrete, but Zach remains at least considerate of the fact that Willy won’t remember him, which he hopes is enough of an embrace to break their cycle.. 

And Willy doesn’t. Remember him, that is.

When Zach first manages to encounter Willy, he tries his best to be breezy. However,  _ embracing the beginning _ proves to be pretty challenging when said beginnings usually only span a two minute interaction over passing the creamer. Not to mention he only manages to “bump” into Willy with about as much subtlety as a middle schooler engineering ways to run into their crush. There’s either too much weird contact, or not enough. Not that it makes any difference, in the end, since every single time, Willy doesn’t have a clue who he is, and just politely smiles at him before returning to his Zach-free life. 

Then, without even having to  _ ask  _ or look very hard, the universe sets him up — completely organically. And Zach has to wonder if he hasn’t just been doomed from the fucking get-go.

It’s a not-so-hidden secret that the photocopy machine near reception is the best in the office. It’s always the latest model, a true feat of human engineering in the form of lightning fast laser printer that blows the other machines out of the water. So it’s not unusual to see a crowd of people around the reception area at any given moment. It just so happens that when Zach’s picking up a parcel from the receptionist one afternoon, the sole person standing behind the photocopy machine is Willy. Because of course when Zach’s seeking him out, he’s up to the challenge, but the one time he lets his guard down, the universe decides to just  _ present _ him with an opportunity he’d be an idiot not to take. 

Zach has a feeling that may be the whole point.

So he does what anyone teetering the edge of their breaking point would do: he tucks his parcel in his back pocket, picks up a few blank sheets of printer paper, and stands behind Willy. Willy half-turns around with an apologetic smile. 

“Sorry, man,” he says, gesturing to Zach’s stack of papers. “Photocopier near my desk was broken.”

“No worries,” Zach answers, trying his best to conceal the papers so Willy can’t see that they are, in fact, blank.

Again, Willy doesn’t seem to know him from Adam. It’s normal, now; Zach’s accustomed to the blank dismissal. Only, nothing about that seems to get easier the more it happens. Zach’s been looking for answers everywhere, but every time he’s actually confronted with the possibility for resolution, something holds him from it. It’s like he’s paralyzed, trapped in between stasis and taking action, like he’s trying to swim, but the undercurrent keeps pulling at his ankles, tripping him over his own feet. He doesn’t know how much more he should be doing, is the thing. He’s not doing enough to  _ embrace the beginning _ , probably. It’s not enough — it can’t be enough — to just let these few cosmic moments with Willy exist and then slip through the fabric of time. It’s not enough to just sit on the sidelines of what is ostensibly his own life, anymore. And if there was one person who showed him that the most, it’s Willy. So maybe he owes it to himself and maybe he owes it to both of them and maybe it’s not even a matter of anyone owing anything, really, but maybe he still decides to throw caution to the wind, anyway, just cause, and ask, “Do you know who I am?”

He has to actively will himself to feel unperturbed by the inevitable answer, and the mild, restrained smile that accompanies it. “Um, should I?” Willy says. His eyes are still trained on the blue screen of the photocopy machine, and he punches in a sequence of commands on the buttons.

“I’m Zach,” Zach answers. It’s worth a shot, triggering Willy’s memory with the mention of his name. Like those fairytales about requiring true love’s kiss to unlock the magic of the universe. Only, you know, potentially-true-love’s first name, instead.

“Sorry, I don’t think so.” Willy says, prying his photocopies from the printer tray and turning towards the hallway.

Something feels sticky. He’s not about to let this moment slip, let it become another in a long line of forgotten encounters.

Zach returns his fake stack of papers hurries after him. “Sorry, I know you said you don’t know who I am, but. Are you  _ sure _ ?” And, just for good measure, he stares as deeply as he possibly can into Willy’s eyes without being weird. Or, weird _ er _ .

“Yeah, man, I’m pretty sure I have no clue who you are,” Willy replies with a short laugh.

“Here’s the thing, though. I kind of know you.”

Willy expels another brief laugh. The kind of laugh that has nothing behind it. Polite. It makes Zach feel a little sick. “How’s that?”

That’s not Willy’s laugh. Zach doesn’t understand why that’s what strikes him, but it hurts because he  _ knows _ . Willy’s real, genuine laugh isn’t polite in the slightest — it takes no prisoners and bears no heed for anyone. It’s indulgent and unselfconscious and Zach sometimes wishes he could go back to the days when it was so easily bestowed upon him. Willy likes lame jokes, even if he plays it cool.

“Listen, I… I don’t know how to make you understand this, but. I know you like bad jokes, even if you pretend you don’t. And I know you adore your family, and  _ talking  _ about your family more than anything else. I know you’re… driven and intentional and almost too  _ good _ for your own good. I mean, you must be, if you made  _ me _ reconsider my whole world view — ”

“That’s…” Willy says, looking like his brain is oscillating between fight and flight with alarming volatility. “Really fucking weird. Not to be rude, or anything, but you should probably leave me alone?” he stutters some more before shuffling further down the hall.

“I’m not weird, I swear!” Zach calls after him. It’s belated at best, utterly ineffective at worst, and besides, has anyone who isn’t weird ever had to announce that they’re not?

It’s like déjà vu, almost. It would have probably been more helpful to feel déjà vu earlier on in the interaction — probably when he started talking in the first place. Zach doesn’t know what’s wrong with him. He thought his problems would at least slowly be on the mend after he opened himself up to seeing the genie again and then after agreeing to take Mitch’s words to heart. But the opposite seems to be happening, and it’s like he loses control of the situation every time, even when he’s conscious of trying not to fuck everything up. All he wanted was to try and jog Willy’s memory, to show him that he  _ knows _ him. He somehow thought that wouldn’t be completely creepy to an unsuspecting person, but. Freaking Willy out was  _ not _ the plan to win his heart and memory back, so why  _ the hell _ did he run his mouth? He made the same mistake as last time, and now, he feels farther away from Willy than ever.

 

 

Zach’s so preoccupied with the absolute dumpster fire of his personal life that he nearly forgets the company picnic this Saturday.

The annual company picnic is a time for people in different departments to get together and bond over processed meats, juice bars, and an assortment of games (both inflatable and otherwise), while Kyle parades around handing out arbitrary awards. It is, Zach figures, the biggest Sportify event of the year. That even includes the Christmas party, where last year, they had Cirque du Soleil acrobats serve their entrées. Kyle is like a child trapped in a slightly-older child’s body; a confusing jumble of a person who grew up adoring summer camp and venerating it as the best experience of their life, and a person who has absolutely never been to a summer camp. Either way, he pulls out all the stops, and spares no expense in making it, ultimately, the most over-the-top so-called  _ picnic _ of the summer.

He plans it every year, which is either a good thing if you happen to share his eccentricities, a bad thing if you’re a child, or an interesting study in the human condition if you’re Zach. It’s taken a few tries to get it close to anything even remotely resembling a fun time for the whole family, and he’s workshopped it a little year by year to strike the perfect balance. Zach’s first year with the company, they played Kyle’s personal Spotify playlist, which featured a lot of Bon Iver. Nobody danced, that year.

The park that houses it is pretty sprawling, lined with big, old trees, but sparse enough in the center to allow Kyle’s megalomania to manifest in full. There’s a small colony of barbecues to one side, a volleyball court to the other, carnival games, and a few bouncy houses in the distance. There is, in general, a pièce de resistance at these events, a big showstopper that Kyle promotes relentlessly. It’s never the one you expect, either. It’s never the Ferris wheel, or the VR games, or the four hundred bumbleberry pies commissioned from a local bakery for a pie-eating contest. It’s usually some off-brand version of fun that would only delight someone as eccentric as Kyle enough to promote it as the year’s main event. 

This year, in all its complete racial insensitivity, it’s inflatable sumo wrestling. The newsletters leading up to this week have done nothing but build the anticipation for this event: employee versus employee sumo wrestling matches. At the beginning of the afternoon, there’s already a crowd around the wrestling pit, people with their popcorn and hotdogs and fresh pressed juices eagerly watching two of their coworkers throw down while Kyle narrates the match as though he’s a TSN announcer. 

Zach passes the whole cringe-worthy spectacle on his way to pick up his concession tickets, and is so wrapped up in both casually observing the whole mess unfold and pretending not to stare that he doesn’t register Willy walking past him until it’s too late. When he turns his head to look back in front of him, there’s Willy, a few feet in the distance. It’s not a big company, so it really shouldn’t catch Zach that far off-guard to see him around, even among the dozens of screaming children and occasional dog. Zach doesn’t bother averting his eyes. Willy’s staggeringly beautiful, and it’s not like he’ll remember Zach, anyway. A few kids jostle around him in line, impatient to collect their tickets admitting them to the bouncy castle monstrosities that sit pompously in the far distance. As Willy approaches, he spots Zach and gives him a suspicious glare. 

“Please tell me you’re not going to corner me with more facts about myself?” He asks with a bite. It seems Willy’s chosen fight over flight, today. Zach nearly trips over the seven-year-old in front of him.

“Uh,” Zach says, and he burns as Willy shoulders his way past him.

Then it hits him —

Willy  _ remembers  _ that he was a total creep the other day. And despite Willy only remembering the way Zach came on  _ way _ too strong, it’s  _ something _ , right? It’s a start.

A  _ beginning _ , if you will.

Zach’s new purpose for the day crystalizes in his mind as he picks up his food tickets: today is his universe-granted opportunity to undo all the mistakes he’s made with Willy. One, it would seem, of many, but with one fundamental difference that Zach would be damned if he didn’t seize. To somehow remind Willy of the time when he didn’t think Zach was a psycho stalker, and simultaneously, hopefully, make him fall in love with Zach. Or at least see past the craziness enough to give him a shot.

He can’t be subtle or hesitant about it, but he can’t be up in Willy’s face again, either. He has to somehow get Willy to come to him, to get Willy to want to give Zach that chance. Zach figures, he has about ten solid minutes to get his attention before losing complete control of the situation, because pretty soon, the relay races will start and Zach’s heard rumours about this fancy downtown creamerie coming to cater the ice cream portion of the afternoon.

Zach scans the field in the direction Willy passed him earlier. He finds him pretty easily; Willy’s cut his complimentary T-shirt into a crop top and he’s playing volleyball with some of the girls from HR. It’s such a completely absurd picture that Zach feels himself grow hot all over, and he really needs something cold like a bottle of water or a dip in the Arctic fucking Ocean before he does something stupid like pass out on sight.

Zach is just overwhelmed by it — all of it — for a split second, before he gets an idea.

Let it be known that Zach is rarely overcome by impulsive ideas, let alone acts on them.

But he needs to do  _ something _ to get Willy’s attention. 

Kyle has been bemoaning the lack of sumo participants for anyone within hearing range of the loudspeaker, so Zach decides to hit two birds with one stone. He marches over to the sumo wrestling pit and starts to dress himself in one of the huge costumes. 

“That’s the spirit!” Kyle cheers.

Zach has to climb carefully into the inflatable suit, prying the vinyl over his clothes and willing himself to not think about the number of people who’ve worn this very humid, sticky suit. The helmet he’s given is black and thick, with a ball at the top that’s meant, apparently, to approximate the hairstyle of a sumo wrestler. It all kind of makes him cringe. He takes a few deep breaths, before climbing under the cables and into the pit.

“Alright, fam!” Kyle says into the mic, “who’s gonna challenge Jack in the sumo pit?”

“It’s  _ Zach _ ,” Zach mutters under his breath, as he tugs the heavy helmet on his head.

The quiet, pleasant chatter of an afternoon company picnic ceases pretty immediately the moment Zach’s challenger emerges from the proverbial fog. It’s Matt Martin from accounts receivable, whose got shoulders that look like they’re made of concrete and an angry glare that says you don’t wanna fuck with him.

Zach gulps as he watches Matt tug on his inflated sumo costume with the look of sheer delight unique to someone who knows they’re about to inflict bodily harm on another person. Zach  _ really _ doesn’t like that look in his eyes. Around the sumo pit, the small crowd that’s naturally assembled starts to grow, apparently full of curious onlookers excited to watch a man get pummelled voluntarily.

“Okay, gentlemen, keep it clean, keep it professional,” Kyle says, schmoozing the mic like he was probably born to.

On Kyle’s cue, he and Matt make simultaneous moves for each other. It’s difficult to get any purchase, not least of all because the sheer size of their costumes makes it impossible to make efficient use of his arms. He chooses to adopt a defensive stance, and bounces back every so often to keep his opponent at bay. Zach keeps trying to see if Willy’s joined the crowd, but it’s impossible to keep track of both that and Matt. He ends up taking a few pretty rough tackles because of it, but the padding of the suit helps absorb the shock.

But then, out the corner of his eye, he spots a familiar face and exposed midriff. With his restricted mobility, Zach has to turn his head further around in order to get a full glimpse at Willy, since the stupid helmet is so thick it’s like a set of horse blinders. There’s a split second of eye contact, loaded and breathless but  _ there _ , and Zach feels it in his core.

Zach tries to reach out to Willy, to motion for him to wait for Zach or to, like, not forget him again, but it doesn’t seem to matter. Willy’s rolling his eyes and turning around, walking in the opposite direction. Zach narrowly avoids getting turned upside down by Matt’s oncoming tackle, bouncing over to the other side of the pit as he tries to keep an eye on Willy, whose back is retreating further away into the crowd.

It can’t happen again, Zach decides. He can’t just continue living his life as some chicken shit who’s too scared to chase what he wants. And it has to mean  _ something _ that Willy remembered him today, and not all those other times. Zach can’t let him get away again without giving it his all. That’s why he stepped into this stupid sumo match in the first place, it’s why he spent his week following the words of a genie, it’s why he, for the first time in his life, is trying so goddamn hard to be worthy, and to hold onto something worth holding onto.

It’s crazy, is the thing. This is all fucking nuts, but at the core of it, at the very fucking epicenter is this feeling of longing that’s so completely and utterly wild. Zach is sick of feeling like he has to tame it, like he should continue to tamp down the feeling that’s been threatening to overtake him since this whole ordeal began. He knows what the feeling is, too. He’s known it for a while, he thinks.

“ _ Willy _ !” Zach calls. 

It’s futile. Willy shoulders past another few people, and it suddenly becomes impossible for Zach to be in this sumo match and also desperately try to get Willy to turn around.

Without thinking twice, Zach makes a break for the edge of the sumo pit. He crawls under the cables and charges after Willy. The maneuver is challenging, with all his extra size, but he manages to run pretty fast, all things considered. There’s a group of volunteers next to the sumo pit selling raffle tickets, and Zach grabs a megaphone off their picnic table. The woman in charge stumbles, “Sir?  _ Sir _ , you can’t just —”

But Zach doesn’t hear her. And he doesn’t register the shrieks of confused onlookers. He can’t process anything other than Willy’s back, retreating to the opposite end of the park, possibly disappearing for good. Zach can’t have that. Losing Willy  _ again _ , after everything is —

Just. That can’t happen.

“William Nylander!” He calls, and Willy stops walking, “I was wrong. I was an idiot. I  … and now I’m worried it’s too late. I know you think I’m just  _ some guy _ who doesn’t know you, but I do. And I-I love you.”

Zach sees Willy mouth, “ _ What _ ?” so he sets the megaphone down on the picnic table and mutters a quick thank you to the woman to whom it belonged, before sprinting the few feet down the park where Willy stands, still unmoved from the moment Zach called his name. When he makes it over, he struggles out of his abominable helmet, letting it fall to his feet as he steels himself to repeat the three words that he hopes will get through to Willy.

Then, Zach hears the sounds of a distant battle cry drawing increasingly near. At first, he thinks it’s just background noise from the relay races, since the egg-spoon race is a particular hit with this crowd.

He registers three things at once:

  1. Kyle Dubas speaking, “Uh oh,” into the mic
  2. His own helmet still sitting at his feet
  3. Matt Martin, teeth bared, practically roaring, charging him at full speed



And then everything goes black.

 

 

Zach resurfaces a few moments later, with an ache in his head and Willy hovering nervously over him.

Willy cautiously says, “Let’s get you some ice for that,” as he helps Zach to his feet.

Zach groans, cupping the back of his head. Off to the side, Matt is being reprimanded by several people and Kyle is doing his best to guide the crowd’s attention away from the sumo pit and its surroundings. Zach, in the midst of everything, at least has the sense to remove the rest of his costume and return it to a slightly-flabbergasted Kyle, who just wags a half-hearted finger gun in response.

They find an empty picnic table on the end of the park opposite to the sumo pit. Willy passes him an ice pack and sits down next to him on the bench, leaving a solid foot of space between them. He doesn’t try to meet Zach’s eyes, but Zach manages to keep his eyes trained on the ground anyway.

“I probably deserved that,” he groans, pressing the ice pack to his temple gingerly.

“If it’s any consolation, I’ve heard people have done worse at this picnic,” Willy replies with a shrug.

“Worse than confess my love to someone who doesn’t know me in front of dozens of people and then get tackled to the ground by a very angry sumo wrestler?” Zach asks, because yeah, there was the year someone actually caught a  _ fish _ with their bare hands from the nearby lake and insisted they barbecue it, but what just happened is definitely up there.

Willy laughs and shakes head. Zach’s not sure if he’s laughing with or at him, but he’ll take what he can get, at this point. “Well, I’m sure Kyle’s worried you might press charges. It would be an HR nightmare if you did.”

“I don’t plan on it,” Zach says, chancing a look over at Willy.

Willy sighs. “Zach, I’ll be honest. I don’t know why you think you love me, or why I’m supposed to know who you are but  _ don’t _ . And I don’t know if this is worth you getting  _ attacked _ over, you know? How can you even love me if I don’t know who you are?”

“Something’s been… going on, lately, and I don’t know why you can’t remember me. But I know you. Not to sound like a broken record, or anything,” Zach replies. “I know...you’re fiery. You’re not afraid to speak your mind or stand up to people. But also...you’re kind. So kind it almost drives me crazy because you’re, like,  _ otherworldly _ , and. And you care. You care, even about people who don’t deserve it. Even about people like me.”

Willy looks pretty startled. “You could be a psycho stalker.”

Zach raises his hands in front of him. “Promise I’m not.”

“I feel like that’s something a psycho stalker would say,”

“I swear, we’ve met at least five times and every time has been different. Like, you really annoyed me the first time — I’ll be honest — ”

“ _ Thanks. _ ”

“That sounded really bad. But, listen,” Zach takes a deep breath. He can feel his heartbeat in his fingertips, and wonders if that’s a concussion symptom or just Willy’s effect. “My life was so boring, before all of this. I… I was miserable and refused to admit it just because I thought there was nothing else out there for me. I thought I had nothing to gain. And then…  _ you  _ came along — whether you remember that or not. I was a dick to you, and you didn’t deserve it. You know, you honestly changed me, and I was a total, stubborn  _ jackass _ and —”

Willy bolts upright, jumping to his feet. “What did you say?”

Zach stands up, too, a bit more slowly, to match his eye level. Confused, he repeats, “I was a stubborn jackass?”

“Oh, my god,” Willy breathes. He’s got a far-off look in his eyes when he touches Zach’s arm, “I remember.”

“Remember what?” Zach asks, and if he trembles, it’s not because he’s cold.

“You… you carried me for five blocks after spraining my ankle.”

“I did do that, yeah.”

“You completely chewed me out, even though I was just trying to help you write,”

“Guilty,” Zach says, cheeks flushing. He’s staring at Willy, intent on never letting the image of him remembering this escape him, not for a second.

Willy bites his lip. His laugh is a wet sound, like he’s suspended somewhere between joyousness and disbelief. “You — oh my god, you called me a jackass in the elevator,  _ before we’d even met _ .”

Zach cringes. “I’m — fuck, I’m  _ really  _ sorry about that. That’s not who I usually am. I was under a lot of stress and shouldn’t have taken it out on a stranger and — ”

“Zach,” Willy interrupts. Zach pauses, long enough for Willy to tell him, “stop talking.”

Zach nods, and mimes pulling a zipper across his lips. Willy tips his head back, and another laugh escapes him; this time sounding clear and happy, like a bell. A toll that sounds a lot like it’s ringing Zach home.

“You’re a dork,” Willy says.

“Yeah,” Zach answers with a small, pleased sigh.

Willy shakes his head. “I think I love you, too?”

Zach drops the ice pack at his feet. He feels brave enough to take a step closer, and circle his arms around Willy’s waist. “Yeah?”

Willy places a tentative hand on Zach’s chest. “What happens next?” he asks.

The picnic is still in full-swing, off in the distance. Luckily, nobody followed them here, to this small, forgotten corner of the park. The sounds of laughter, chattering, top 40, and Kyle announcing the next sumo match-up on the loudspeaker create a colourful backdrop. Zach considers his options. He could be conservative and professional, appropriately distant the way he once might have been. But right now, he can’t. Right now, he feels way too far past that point, his resolve evaporating into the atmosphere around them. And besides, Willy  _ remembers _ .

“I think,” Zach says, “this is where I kiss you.”

Willy’s eyes widen a fraction, but Zach’s already zeroed in, tipping Willy’s chin up and leaning in to close the distance between them with a kiss.

Willy sinks into the kiss immediately, nearly going slack in Zach’s arms — to the point where Zach actually has to steady him, mid-kiss. Willy’s lips are pillow soft, and slide sweetly over Zach’s own in a way that just feels right. He tastes a bit like watermelon. Zach, he’s just —  _ fuck _ . He’s wanted this for what’s starting to feel like forever. It’s like he can’t even remember a time before Willy was the center of his whole fucking universe. The lows have felt extraordinarily low, but now  _ this _ — this is a high that’s so unbelievably high Zach just feels like his entire heart is soaring. 

It’s so much more than Zach could have possibly prepared for. 

It’s absolutely, utterly perfect.

It’s been weeks since he’s wanted to kiss Willy. Weeks that feel like decades, like utter lifetimes. Weeks since he felt his soul spark and ignite, felt it whole like a room, buoyant in a sea of uncertainty and confusion and, fuck, yeah,  _ magic. _ Zach’s pretty amazed at how well he’s holding it together, to be honest.

If Zach never believed in being happy, he certainly never believed in happily ever afters.  
  


But, then again, that may be another thing Willy has him changing his mind about.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Epilogue involves a montage of footage of Zach writing children’s books and getting published and quitting his job, Willy becoming an elementary school teacher who reads the books to his students (wow is this another au i want to write?), the two of them getting married (in true romcom final credits fashion), and obviously Auston and Mitch falling in love too!  
> \- Willy was triggered by Zach saying “jackass” because apparently I can’t even take my own plot seriously  
> \- I wanted to try something a little weird with this one, so if it made any sense to anybody at all then HIGH FIVE. SERIOUSLY. And to everyone who had the patience to read this whole thing and comment on it, thank you a million times over!!  
> \- On that note, this was less of a typical romcom-type thing than I set out to write but *shrugs*?  
> \- Also serializing a fic is fun but I changed a lot more from my original idea than I thought I would, which is why there were some gaps between updates!  
> \- Anyway this was a ride but so much fun to write! I hope you enjoyed reading it and hang on for the next instalment of my writing as it rapidly and increasingly loses sanity!

**Author's Note:**

> \- Okay, I know this seems like a pretty bleak place to end the first chapter, and I apologize if there wasn’t enough Willy content, but I swear the next one will be worth it!  
> \- Why didn’t Willy text Zach? In what other ways will Zach’s life be completely upended? What will happen next? Stay tuned to find out!  
> \- Also, this is my first time serializing a fic (because I’m generally too impatient to stall my writing and like to get it out in one shot), so I’m excited to see how it goes! Most of the fic is already written, so I’ll try to update regularly.
> 
> Also, hey, I just started a [writing blog](https://oldjolt.tumblr.com), so... follow it if you’d like?


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